#almost all of my notes are now in proper essay form but i am already over the limit and im still only at like 75% of what i intend to say

[spearheadrampancy]

gamers i am going to be so real with you i am struggling BAD.

hey guys watch this im gonna spend the next 5 hours of my life trying to bruteforce a 2000 word, 10 source essay on the nature of uncanniness in video games and then im going to spend an hour and a half trying to figure out how to get access to a film on apple tv without paying for it.

[hoodieofholland]

Handsome Man // Professor!Tom

Summary: you think your professor is a really good-looking man and let it slip out of your mouth.

Word count: ~2.9k

Warnings: none, except for some swearing.

A/n: I really liked writing the prof!tom universe and made it longer now (thanks anon that motivated me to write more about it). taking a moment to add that i always get this feeling that first encounter between reader and professor tom would be like fluffy as hell, he'd be so polite and that fucking accent of him ugghhh. Perfect. Anyways, enjoy!

Masterlist

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"Good morning, everyone!"

You raise your head abruptly, snapped out of your thoughts. Which, by the way, were all directed to the man who was walking down to his desk with a sweet yet confident smile on his face.

"You all are looking so excited with Monday" he says playfully and the class laughs. "Hope I'm worth your tired time here this morning".

You straighten your back, picking pen and book from your backpack as Professor Holland organizes his materials on the wood desk.

You weren't a square at classes or anything like that. But surely you were never late for English classes, neither badly dressed up. You always made sure to pick your best outfit, not leaving out the professional look, all to impress your favorite professor.

Not that you were silly enough to believe something would come out from that strictly professional relationship, but it was inevitable for you wanting to feel pretty around him, as your imagination flew wild whenever he stepped in the classroom.

Professor Holland was really something else. He wasn't only a handsome man, with a noticeable muscular body hidden behind the much formal clothes he wore. He wasn't only the youngest professor in that department. He was intelligent, had a good sense of humor and was incredibly polite.

You could tell by the way girls always seemed to be extra interested on this class that you weren't the only one in the room to feel attracted to your professor.

You always made sure to ne early so you could take a seat in the front row, not to claim for his attention, but to be able to pain attention to the lecture and also get the opportunity to have a good look at him once in a while, mostly when he was distracted, sitting at his desk and taking notes on the classes' essays.

By the end of the lesson, he dismissed the students and you started to pack your things, barely motivated to your next classes. Now that you wouldn't have your professor's look to distract you a bit, it really felt like fucking Monday.

There were only around four students left in the room, and you, who was caring your notebook and pencil on your hands, walking directly to Professor Holland's desk clarify his small notes he took on your essay from last week.

Three girls were standing around his desk, smiling widely as he explained something that were on the board.

"But, Professor Holland..." one of the girls asked the same stupid question again, letting his name roll along her tongue, as she was savoring it. You roll your eyes, flicking your feet as you waited impatiently for your chance to have a time with him.

Professor Holland sighed and gently tried to reassure the group of girls that they could have the assistant to solve their other questions, as he was running out of time and there was another person he had to assist.

Finally, the girls gave in and passed through you, taking the time to send you a look. You just shrugged it off and walked to the Professor's desk.

"Miss. Y/l/n" he greets your, a small smile forming of his lips. Your stomach felt like flipping inside of you and you tried to keep your composure as you reached his desk. "Any questions left?"

"Actually, Professor..." you handed him the paper, a bit ashamed of he remembering it was yours and connecting the words you wrote down with your face. It was so much easier when you didn't see your professor reading your text. "I marked some of the notes you wrote and didn't understand, if you could help me".

He looked over the text, a wrinkle of concentration between his brows, and just when he lifted his gaze back to you, you felt your heart fastening.

"Of course", he gives you a tightlipped smile, grabbing a pen to point some of the corrections to you. "See, there weren't any big mistake on this, you could say I'm just a perfectionist. Actually, this was one of the best essays from the class".

Your eyes light up immediately, feeling too enthusiastic for the compliment. "Thank you, Sir. It means a lot".

Professor Holland nodded once, averting his eyes from you for a moment, his face taking on a more stern look. Then he started to explain his notes and you felt more relaxed as you notice it wasn't really that big of mistakes. You listened with full attention and commented on what you felt like could improve on your writing.

"I feel like if you take your time to rewrite it and survey some of your constructions, this text will be more than excellent" he pointed, handing you the paper again, a proud smile on his lips. Then, he chuckled a bit, playfully, "Obviously, the first score is the one that will be considered for your grade, so it's up to you. But I think it'll be a great work".

You smile happily. "Sure, I'll do it", you take the paper back again and put it inside your folder. Looking at the wall clock, you just notice it's too long past the break between classes. "Shit, I didn't realize it was past your lessons' time already. I'm sorry, I should be going-"

"It's alright, Miss. Y/l/n". He sends you a reassurance smile, putting a hand over yours for a brief moment, but that didn't make it go under your notice. "I'm always satisfied to waste a little more time on my most dedicated students, and even more glad that your questions wasn't about lessons itself", he grimaces and you could tell what he was referring too. "Not in my best behavior saying it out loud, but I was starting to think I wasn't doing a great explanation".

You laugh a bit and shake your head. "Oh, you shouldn't worry about it. I'm pretty sure you're the best professor from this department. Plus, those girls weren't seriously having a problem with the subject" you roll your eyes softly, still smiling, but not quite realising what you had just said.

Professor Holland scowls, face confused as he catches your last sentence. "What do you mean?"

You froze, eyes widening as you gulp. "I-I mean- like, you were explaining it for the fourth time already... it wasn't possible that they didn't get it. I think they were more interested on... you know?".

He narrow his eyes, quirked his brow questioning, expecting you to explain yourself. A shiver pass through your body, embarrassment running right to your blushing cheeks as you struggle to find a proper answer.

"I mean, I think they were interested on... you". You almost cough, looking for somewhere else to stare in the room, avoiding your Professor's concentrated eyes. But as silent is completely made, you have to make sure he isn't mad at your stupid comment. Averting your eyes back at him, you are surprised to be met with his brown ones filled with what seemed amusement.

He was supporting his chin on his fist, a curious look covering his soft feature, hiding a smile behind the thumb pressed against his lips.

"Why would you think that?" He asked in the same amused tone and you never felt more stupid.

You wanted to slap your forehead and hide your entire self on the closest bathroom, but Professor Holland had those glistening brown soft eyes on you, nothing but a relaxed face put in your display, his sultry voice - which you were pretty sure wouldn't sound like this on purpose - incentivanting you to continue.

You cleared your throat and collected your devilish thoughts to think straight.

"I guess most of the girls here think you're, y'know, a handsome man" you shrugged, wanting so much sound casual, as that wasn't your personal opinion.

Mr. Holland raised his eyebrows, you couldn't tell if it was surprise for your answer or for your courage on saying that out loud. Maybe both.

"Did you hear that?", he questioned, tilting his head a little to the side. "From those girls?"

He got you. You knew that. He knew you were just making assumptions, which meant that could only be your own opinion expressed on the vision you had over other students.

"No", you answered under your breath, gulping. "It's just a guess".

Silent was made and you felt terrified. You truly started to think that Mr. Holland was planning the most tough comments on your behavior, that he would try to show you how unprofessional and not ethic at all was your opinion about him, that he was your professor and you were his student, nothing beyond that. But then he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair as his eyes concentrated on you.

He looked like someone who was pondering something, but your nervousness calmed down a little bit at the way he had his gaze over you. Though his eyes were dark, that couldn't be so bad, if he didn't have a mad expression on.

"Is it what you think?" He tried again, the corner of his mouth threatening to quirk. "Do you think I'm a handsome man?"

You close your eyes briefly, feeling past ashamed of it. "I'm sorry, it's pathetic, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay, Miss. Y/l/n" he chuckles softly. "Don't make a big deal out of it. After all, I'm not much older than you, am I? Shouldn't be so wrong to have an opinion about my looking".

He was taking it so calmly that you couldn't believe. Maybe he was right, maybe it wasn't a big deal. Or maybe he was so used to having girls head over heels for him that it didn't get on his nerves anymore.

You sigh and decide to agree better than discuss anything and make more shame on yourself. "Anyways, I just wanted you to know that-"

"Mr. Holland?"

A voice interrupt him, and you turn your head abruptly to see another professor standing in the door frame, a case on his hand, eyes going between both of you. "Sorry for interrupting, but I'm giving my next lesson here. Is it taking too long, or...?"

"Oh, no", Mr. Holland smiled fondly and stood up, gathering his things from the desk. "Pardon me, didn't realize it was so late. Miss y/l/n, do you have any more questions left?"

You narrow your eyes at him, a bit taken aback as you knew you weren't making any questions seconds prior. He was lying, lying about the reason why the two of you were stuck in his classroom for so long. So you just nodded back and corrected your face.

"No, I'm fine, Sir. Thanks for your time" you smiled a little before turning in your heels.

The other man entered the class and started to put his things above the table, with Mr. Holland beside him. You were about to step out of the room when you hear your professor talking to you.

"Oh, and Miss. Y/l/n?" You turned your head to look at him again. He smiled. "It'd be lovely if you rewrite that essay. You can pass by my office later to show me your corrections, if you want to".

You blink, too surprised to answer right away. With a pounding heart on your chest, you nod, wishing nothing but to work on that useless essay as soon as possible.

____________

The day passes quickly, your mind too occupied with your essay. Missing some of your later classes, you saved time to stay until 6pm in the library, trying to come out with the of your writing whilst correcting the mistakes Mr. Holland pointed for you.

Certainly, that was the most dedicated you've ever been for a work.

But you couldn't resist the anxiety running through your body as you thought about walking down that aisle in the Professor Holland's office direction.

Again, you weren't expecting anything beyond him reading your text again, but the thought of seeing him alone one time was exciting itself.

You finish your work and put the paper inside a case, gathering everything together and walking straight to the aisle of English department.

It was empty and quiet, not a sight of any students neither professors around, as it was past the last lectures for the day.

Taking a few good breathes, you smooth your hand down your skirt before knocking softly on Professor Holland office's door.

"Come in!"

You turn the handle and open the door, closing it behind you. Mr. Holland looked tired, eyes heavy under his glasses. He also seemed busy, reading a book and taking his notes.

"Oh, Miss Y/l/n", he smiles warmly when his eyes lift to your face, waving a hand for you to take a seat in front of his desk. "Glad to see you. I suppose you made the corrections on your essay?"

You smile and nod, sitting down before reaching your paper in your backpack. "I added some other points I thought about when reading again", you hand him your essay and he takes it, fingers touching yours briefly, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"Great" he looked over the paper, reading more cautiously at some point in the middle, where the biggest changes were made. He seemed impressed with your work and you couldn't help but feel the euphoria by each time the curve of his lips seemed to form a smile.

You looked over his office. It was small, but enough for one person only. There was a shelf full of books and a pretty tiny table across the room, cups, water and what you assumed to be tea inside a bottle on top of that.

"It's really cozy here" you speak out loud, more to yourself, wandering and picturing Mr. Holland sitting beside his little table and taking his tea while reading one of the shelf's book.

He smiles, lifting his glance from the paper to your face, which was still looking around. "You like it?"

You blink a few times before answering, a bit embarrassed that he caught your vague comment. "Yeah". His face held nothing but a contemplating look. "It must feel really good to have an office all to yourself".

Mr. Holland laughs quietly. "I don't spend too much time here to appreciate that much, actually", he admits. "Most of my time in the building is spent in classrooms and I pretty much like taking my work home, so... But, yes, it's good".

"I'd like it. Y'know, having somewhere you can take a time off and even have lunch when everywhere else is so full of people". You make your point, shrugging.

Something crosses Mr. Holland's face, but he quickly make it disappear.

"Well", he says, looking at your essay again after clearing his throat. "I like it very much. Not a single mistake this time. I can say properly now that this is the best essay I received for last week's work".

You smile widely. "Thank you, Mr. Holland".

He look up at your again, a small and hesitating smile on his lips. "You can call me Tom", when you open your mouth and say anything, he continues, "If you want. Mr. Holland just makes me feel so old".

You laugh at his grimace. "Oh, you're nothing near old, no worry on that".

Tom smiles more freely, if not smugly, and you feel your cheeks darkening in pink.

"Yeah, you think I'm... a handsome man, right?" He teases you and for a moment, it's not like your formal and professional professor is the one in the room anymore. You smiles sheepishly, bitting your lips to try to contain it.

"I'm sorry for that again", you shake your head, but Tom whines.

"If you don't stop with your apologies, I'm going to give you another essay to write". He says playfully. "I'm just joking, y/n".

Hearing your first name coming out of his mouth warms your heart and you feel like exploding in excitement.

"Wouldn't be such a punishment, I think" you admit, looking to your hands.

Tom narrows his eyes, corner of his mouth raising in a smile again. "And why is that?"

You bite your lower lips, pressing your fingers in the palm of your hand nervously as you think about what you're saying next, "Well, if it meant I'd have to come here to show you, I'd gladly write one".

Tom takes your answer slowly, smile growing on his face and he chuckles softly. "Really?"

"Yeah", you nod.

Tom stares at you for the following seconds and it's just as when you glance at the clock in his desk that yiu realize you've spent too much time inside his office.

"I think I gotta go now", you say, standing up and picking your backpack and essay. It wouldn't look good a student getting out of a professor's office so late in the night.

Tom smiled sadly and got up too, watching as you made your way to the door. But before you could open it, you remembered you last talk in the classroom.

"Tom?" You tested the name on your lips, savoring the liberty he had just given to you. He looked at you, waiting. "What was it you were going to say before that professor entered the classroom?"

He took a few seconds thinking and then a trace of a small smile came to his features.

"I was just going to say that I appreciate your compliment" he licks his lips and you smile. "Also, that you should know I think you're pretty gorgeous too".

[weuschoiceheart]

🔑Keiys To Your Heart - Romeo and Juliet

~Inspired by @bluejayjay and @choi-seonset​ conversation about Seon acting out Romeo and Juliet....

Taglist:  @baekhyuns-star @choi-seonset @raftel-is-waiting @mysticpenguincreation @lifeisamuffin @bluejayjay @soft-black-teabag  (dm me to be tagged!)

Genre: fluff, mostly CrAcK, pining, Pining, PINING, theater!au, Seon playing matchmaker with Jaeho as his sidekick, K x female!reader

Warning: cursing,  prepare yourself for cringe

Summary: In which Seon is sick of seeing K and Y/n pine for each other, so when the school play started up, he forced the K to audition, hoping he’ll get the main role while Y/N (typical theater student) gets Juliet. To his shock, however, another student snatches Juliet’s role and Seon is forced to rethink his plan.

Part 1/? : Next —>

————— ————— ————— ————— ————— —————

“Seon.”

“K.”

“Seon.”

“Seoff.”

K threw his hands up in exasperation. “No!”

Seon crossed his arms, lips pursed in a thin line. “Oh, come on. You know it’s a good idea! I’m so tired of you being whipped for her, and not even doing anything about it!”

“I’m not whipped-”

Seon rolled his eyes, “sure, and Moona isn’t whipped for Jay.”

K frowned. “Doesn’t she like Heeseung?”

Seon waved his hand carelessly, “same thing, same thing.” Before K can open his mouth to say that they are, in fact, not the same thing, Seon pressed on. “Look, this can be your chance to show something, give her some signs, get closer. And if she doesn’t like you back, which is impossible because I’m sure she does, then it won’t matter ‘cause you’re just playing your role as adoring Romeo. AND-” Seon glared at K, who was about to interrupt, -”it’ll look good on your college application!”

“For your information, I’m already certain that I’m getting into college through an athletic scholarship,” K said. “So right now, I just need to focus on track, not some fancy theater play that I never even tried out for.”

“Well, it will make you even more appealing because it shows that you’re versatile and willing to try out new things!” Upon seeing K’s still unconvinced face, Seon decided to cut the dramatics (ugh, bad pun). “I’m only saying that you should try, you know? If you don’t make it past the audition, fine, whatever. I’m only trying to help you out.”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle my love life myself.” K turned back to the stack of books in front of him, burying himself back to studying for his calculus exam. Curse his math teacher for giving him a test on such a short notice, even though it’s only been a few weeks since everyone had come back to school.

“With how you’re handling it right now, it would be graduation and you still wouldn’t have confessed,” Seon mumbled to himself. He stuffed his essay papers in his bag and stood up. “I gotta go, Jaeho’s waiting for me outside. See you later.”

“Mhm.” Seon sighed at K’s incoherent muttering, before making his way out of the library. Well, if you don’t decide to speak up, then I’ll have to play matchmaker here and you’ll thank me later for keeping your nonexistent love life from dying. 

K stretched his arms above his head and yawned, before ducking his head sheepishly as the librarian glared at him, probably done with his and Seon’s constant bickering. Ah well, at least now he could finish studying in peace without someone pestering him to grow some balls and ask his crush out. None of that, no distractions—

His phone vibrated and lit up with a message, making his eyes widen at who it was from.

Y/Nie ❤❤: Hey K! I hope you didn’t forget about our meeting for the group project :)

K gasped. Oh shit-

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

K opened the door to the cafe, panting slightly. He had ran here as fast as he could (thank god he’s on the track team) and upon seeing you pressing your face to the window with a worried expression, he mentally chided himself. How can you be so stupid? You’re supposed to meet her twenty minutes ago - wow, she looks so beautiful - and now you kept her waiting - her pout is so cute-

Shaking his head, he realized that he have been standing at the entrance of the cafe, staring at you for who knows how long, and now some of the customers were giving him weird glances. Making his way over, he sat down in front of you and tapped your shoulder.

You jumped slightly in surprise, your face relaxing into a bright smile upon seeing him. “You’re finally here!”

“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—for keeping you waiting—” Lovely, now he can’t even form proper sentences in front of you. Y/N! Stop smiling at me like that! It’s frying my brain!

Thankfully, you just let out a short laugh, finding his stuttering cute. “It’s fine, we all forget sometimes. Should we start working now?”

Nodding, K took out his laptop, grateful for a distraction so he doesn’t make a fool of himself again. The two of you started to work in relative silence, comparing notes every now and then. After half an hour, you called for a break. 

“How have you been doing these days?” you swirled the straw around the cup of your Frappuccino. K had offered for pay for it, though you adamantly refused. K sipped his own ice tea, pondering on the question.

“Stressed over exams, because apparently my teachers decided that they should all give tests right as the school year started,” K rolled his eyes, making you laugh. God, he loves your laugh. “Besides that, training for track because we have another competition coming up in a month, trying to get all these assessments done, dance team...yeah it’s a lot,” K ruffled his hair in frustration. You made a noise in agreement.

“Yeah, I have a research paper I still need to finish, as well as stupid lab reports about bacteria,” you wrinkled your nose. “Not to mention, I need to practice for the upcoming play.” You sighed. “I don’t know why they decide to pick Romeo and Juliet out of all the shows we can do, I bet my English teacher bribed Ms. Lee so she can ramble on about the importance of Shakespeare’s plays again.”

“Oh right...you’re auditioning for Juliet’s role, right?” K suddenly flashed back to his conversation with Seon. 

You nodded. “I probably won’t get it though, I’m not that good at portraying medieval characters. Besides, the only time I got the lead was when we couldn’t find enough people to play Sleeping Beauty last year.”

“I remembered that,” K still recalled how jealous he was seeing you kiss another boy, even though it was just acting. Seon had practically dragged him over to the stage after the performance ended, berating him to confess, but K had wimped out. “I’m sure you’ll get the part though, you’ll make the perfect Juliet.”

“You think so?” you could feel your face heating up, and looked down, flustered. K realized what he just said, and blushed, fumbling around with his fingers. “Thanks, but...I’m not that good, really. Me getting the role of Juliet is as likely as you dropping out of track or auditioning for the play.”

“I’m going to audition though.”

“Huh?” you looked at him confused. K stared back, as his words started to register in his mind.

Oh crap, why did I just say that—oh my gosh, how can you be so stupid— “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

“Wait, really?” You smiled, your expression a mixture of surprise and excitement. “I didn’t know you were into theater....I mean, I don’t think you’re going to be bad or anything, um—” Y/N, get your act together, this is your crush for fuck’s sake. “I think you’ll make a great Romeo!” You winked at him, before internally cringing at yourself.

The wink almost gave K a cardiac arrest. I am so gonna regret this. But he couldn’t say no to you, especially when you’re smiling at him so radiantly like this. So he forced a smile, already imagining Seon laughing at him. “Yeah, I hope I get the part!”

[fencesandfrogs]

clan culture inspiration fic master post

a collection of fics/series/w/e i've used for inspiration. ordered by how much i used them

Flightless Dove, Poison Ivy acaciapines

read it, it’s good. it's 100% my main fic inspiration, i love it, it's very good.

the light that shines on you solacefruit

huge inspiration for my riverclan. just. massively where i get a lot of ideas. probably a larger source of material than flightless dove, if i'm being honest.

RIVERCLAN leaders have a litany of names. weather caller, storm seer, spirit walker. a new leader being made is a chance to find another for the list. these names are to honor leaders for the role they play in their lives.

(names. leaders. meaning.)

so you can see where i got that from.

Warriors Redux Deconstruction Dullard on ao3 (not linked)

i've split this into two parts, because there's a lot. i'm a fan of this in terms of world building, but i've been select in what i've used from it. deconstruction is linked highly because it had a lot of key details that shaped my opinions on what wouldn't be. a lot of this i would've changed anyway, but i wanted to list WR because it'd be dishonest to act like this wasn't shaping my thoughts.

anyway, a short list of things that were mentioned in WR:D that i'd already decided on or am now using

behaviors. i mean, i've said "flicked her tail" or "flattened his ears" so much it's getting old, but by god if i am not being true to cats movements. i think WR:D is somewhat conservative on use of purring, but i've also been writing about kits, and a lot of purring is involved with kits, so special case, i suppose. but i'm very cautious with my descriptions. i've tried really hard not to use smile, because cats don't smile. that's the one that gets me the most.

water. this is kind of a specific thing. but. in ctd's fading echoes. the lake is a concern not because the cats need water, but because the prey needs water.

queens and toms. now. i have always been irritated by this. and the lack of female leadership. because toms should know they're kept on the graces of the queens. the sisters got it right. but i can't just kick out half the cast, so i'm forced to keep them. i have, however, kept toms out of the nursery. queens are protective around their kits. it's the best i can do to appease my strong desire to literally just kick every male cat out of the clan. in all of my stories, though, i keep track of who's in the nursery with what kits, because those kits are going to bond to every damn mother. it's super annoying that this isn't kept more clear anywhere. i have to do so much math and check so many allegiances every time.

kits. it's basically impossible to convince me to write this the way the hunters do, so even in ctd, we see kits not walking, not opening their eyes, until real kittens would. does this make the early chapters of growing shadows a pain because dovekit does basically nothing but sit and listen? yes. do i care? yes, it is important to me that dovekit does nothing but sit and listen because she's a baby. bb. need protect.

genetics. usually i correct coat colors for POV cats. because it bothers me. see: tortie dovekit/ivykit in CTD, and the fact that i think in jaywing, jayfeather is going to end up amber like brightheart. i need to do some research to double check, but...i think that's what will happen. (please don't ask about hollykit, ivykit, and lionkit. i don't even know who their parents are. how is crowfeather "dark grey, almost black"? what does that mean. how is leafpool even leafpool. i don't understand anything.)

religion. i'm not fundamentally changing how starclan works, because i'm writing the books where magic is confirmed real, but...i've tried to distance the connections with it. and god, so help me, i'm going to make things a proper religion for w&f. there will be religious things like prayer. god.

cultures, folklore, names. this is getting long so i'm lumping this together. basically, i've got some name stuff sorted out. it's not "traditional" naming, because i'm not going WR on this and renaming really important cats (altho the reason WR has my respect for traditional naming is because they're not afraid to rename cats to fit the scheme), but i have some pretty defined rules. and there will be folklore and stories. this is especially important for dovefeather, when she goes to riverclan.

Sharing Tongues Icej

a series. i don't think i've used much of this directly, but it has shaped a lot of my opinions on clans. it's why thunderclan is militaristic and why windclan is so strict.

it's also shaped my thoughts on a lot of parts of clan life. i'm writing this all out of order, so i'll say, a lot of the inspiration that warriors redux had, is shared in this series. i'm not sure if there's overlap in the interst, but it's got simularities.

especially in terms of relationships. i have a bit of a fascination with story telling as a form of culture, if only because in my personal life, story telling, especially verbal story telling, has always been really important. so i think a lot about it.

anyway, these are a good set of fics, and they're ranked so highly because they're kind of a paradigm i've crafted my thoughts around.

Tell me about your Ancestors Drowsy_Salamander

so this was what got me started, even over flightless dove. it got me thinking about the differences clans would have.

i haven't written "funerals. mourning. prayer." yet, although as you might guess from the fact that i have a title, it is on my mind. i think i'll draw heavily on this for that.

one other very specific line in this that i draw on is

When SkyClan was reformed by Firestar at the gorge, it was reformed in ThunderClan’s image.

now i say that specifically because i didn't want that. i wanted leafstar to find her own tradition. a lot of skyclan's destiny deals with her struggling to adapt the warrior code to her clan. so Ancestors continues by talking about tree's influence, and this is what i got from it:

SKYCLAN once held ceremonies at tilt, when the birds were quiet, but now, they hold most ceremonies at low moon, when the spirits are strongest. ...

apprentices are made at low sun, born from a time when they were not always gathered.

(ceremonies)

and i'm happy with that

Warriors Redux: Ammendment Dullard on ao3, not linked

this is ranked significantly lower than deconstruction because (a) i'm borrowing superificial things at best and (b) i had already come to a lot of these conclusions. still, i'm writing a full list because there are little things i don't think to write whole essays about sometimes. that said, whereas in deconstruction, i could basically say "yes, everything that's said here, i agree with, i'm only tweaking things for personal taste or because of differences in perspective" here it's more like "here are the things i'm using" and the other stuff is just there, but not really anything i want to use

time and date. in one of my generic CTD posts i had a few paragraphs about this. basically, i like the system of time. except for half, because that confuses me. so it's dawn, sunrise, low sun, (sun) tilt, sunhigh, dusk, moonrise, low moon, (moon) tilt, moonhigh, repeat. and kits are aged to apprentices at the beginning or rough midpoint of seasons.

numbers. math. drawing things in the dirt with claws. in short, yes, no, what the...no. just no. cats in my stories can basically count, but they don't really, like, count the way we do? they might say five leaf bares ago, because i am not saying, "the leaf bare before the one with X which was before the one with Y" and that's what a cat is thinking and maybe they have words for this, i don't know, i'm not writing that. four and nine are holy numbers, or the closest cats get. (apprentices are apprenticed at nine moons in the holy sense, because a queen pregnent for a three --- two, but who's counting --- and in the nursery for six. this will never come up in a story unless it's a background note, because it's confusing and hard to explain off the cuff.) i don't have to explain my last point.

names. i have my own rules. i don't intend on changing character names with the exception of the symbolism in jaywing and dovefeather, but i may at some point make some comments on what, based on my rules, i would do. i don't want to change names because it confuses me, but i don't want to say for sure that i won't. definitely not based on WR rules, i have my own form of "traditional naming" for the w&f world.

clan specific notes. you can find it in my writing. there's a lot of influence in it. i don't want to list everything.

come back to you one by one solacefruit

i haven't really used this for anything, i just generally like it. it's definitely given me inspiration for how i use stories, but not any particular thing.

it really is beautiful, though.

alright, that's about it.

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #6

A/N: If anyone’s interested, the perfume Lizzie is wearing is one of my all-time favourites, Aqua di Gioia by Giorgio Armani. It’s really poorly described here because my olfactory recognition doesn’t go beyond ‘good’ and ‘bad’, but well. It’s divine though. Also, bear with me if sth astrological is wrong, this stuff is complicated! Katriona Cassiopeia (aka KC) belongs to my lovely friend @kc-needs-coffee

  Word Count: ~ 2.100

______________________________________________________________ 

Chapter 6: A New Perspective

As it turned out, Orion’s decision to name Everett Hufflepuff’s new Beater had been the right one. He still had a way to go, but he immediately fell in line with the rest of the team. What he lacked in precision, he made up in strength.

Orion had taking his individual training on himself. As the team’s captain, he saw it as his personal responsibility to ensure every one of his teammates was able to reach his full potential. Everett was a fast learner, but it would take him a few more sessions to even be remotely able to hold a candle to the Ravenclaw Beaters.

Rath and Cassiopeia had been a well attuned team for many years now, both as skilled a Beater as they came. They would need any protection against them they could get, and the match against Ravenclaw was approaching fast.

Although Orion wasn’t the type of person to let his mind be clouded by worries, he had to admit he wasn’t entirely sure they could get Everett into proper form in time. He had been voicing his concerns to Lizzie the other day, during one of their tutoring sessions. If anyone knew what it took to become a Beater in a short amount of time it was her.

Lately, Orion had found himself looking forward to their meetings in the greenhouse, despite his already tightly packed schedule. It was refreshing to discuss their team matters with someone that didn’t flood him with a multitude of statistics for a change. Lizzie had a different approach to things than him, but they weren’t polar opposites like he and Skye. Exchanging views with her had provided him with a new impulse more than once.

In fact, he had come to enjoy her presence in general, even more so than before. They had always been friends but his knowledge about her had pretty much begun and ended at the Quidditch pitch. Seeing her outside team meetings and practise had allowed him to get to know other sides of her. He’d had no idea Lizzie had been part of the duelling club until last year. Or that Arithmancy was one of her favourite subjects. Or that she used a perfume smelling distinctively of jasmine and mint.

Orion had a harder time bonding with her friend Rowan. He hadn’t had any points of contact with her before he had started tutoring them. Now, several weeks later, he still knew hardly anything about her. She seemed to be exceptionally smart, but also equally as shy. Most of the time she would consult her textbook about the plants he tried to teach them about, while Lizzie paid it no mind, listening to his explanations instead.

Orion couldn’t help his impression that Rowan was struggling with his unconventional style of teaching. He didn’t refer to books more than he had to, rather letting his instinct and experience guide him.

Having trained with him for years, Lizzie knew his way of conveying knowledge was not always straightforward. Rowan, however, had a hard time letting go of protocol. She was clinging to the academic theory as if her life depended on it. Following the rules could help with a lot of problems, but she would never master the delicate nuances advanced Herbology had to offer, if she wasn’t willing to tread paths unknown to her.

“And what exactly is the difference between dried foxglove petals and desiccated foxglove petals?”

McNully snapped him out of his thoughts and back to where they were sitting in the Great Hall. It was study time and most of the students were gathered at their House tables, brooding over their homework.

They had been discussing their latest Potions essay, covering the effects sourcing methods had on the quality of ingredients.

“That is what we are supposed to illustrate, I believe.” Orion dipped his quill into the ink bottle they were sharing and tried to pick up where his wandering thoughts had let him off. His eyes wandered casually across the other Hufflepuff students lining their table.

It lingered where Skye and Lizzie were sitting. Lizzie was rapidly flicking through the pages of her textbook with a puzzled expression. Skye was talking insistently at her, looking equally as bewildered.

Several heads shot up as Lizzie audibly slammed her book shut and clambered off the bench. When Skye made no move to follow her, she jerked the other girl up off her seat and motioned with her head towards where he and McNully were sat.

They quietly walked towards the head of the Hufflepuff table. Seeing them approach, McNully reached for his wheelchair that was blocking the way. He moved it aside to allow the girls to join them. Orion smiled.

“What can we help you with?”

Wordlessly, Lizzie held up her copy of Unfogging the Future and slid into a seat between Murphy and him. She reopened the page she had been examining before and gave a frustrated sigh.

“I cannot tell you how much I hate Divination, I really can’t. You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

Orion supressed a smile. “So I am told. What bothers you in particular?”

“It’s those bloody birthstones,” Skye explained. “No matter how often we go over it, Lizzie and I always come to different results and we can’t find the mistake.”

They handed him their notes and Orion quickly gave them a check before returning them.

“That is because both choices are correct. There is more than one birthstone for each of the zodiac signs. You both chose the right stone for the right sign, but in different parts of the time span covered.”

Skye groaned in frustration, earning her a chiding glance from Professor Flitwick, who was supervising them today. “What do you mean, more than one? Why can’t this stuff be straightforward for once?”

“Everyone is different and such is reflected in the stones fortifying our inner strengths. Why should there be so little birthstones when there are so many traits to represent?”

Both girls looked at him with blank expressions.

Patiently, he flipped the pages to one of the star charts at the back of the book. “The astrological year is divided into the twelve zodiac signs. Each zodiac sign is subdivided into three decades, meaning a set of ten days. There are additional factors to consider, but simply put, there are three birthstones for each sign, representing one decade each. That is why you come to different conclusions, you didn’t factor in the time of the month.”

He contemplated telling them about the stones meant to counteract each signs weaknesses. But seeing Skye pinching the bridge of her nose, while was Lizzie trying to process what he had just said, muttering “I hate Divination” under her breath, he decided against it. Better not too much at once.

“How do you know all this nonsense?” Skye was shaking her head in disbelief.

“I know all this because it is explained in the introduction of the chapter you two apparently weren’t reading too diligently.” He turned the pages back to the beginning and pointed at the paragraph on the first page.

Lizzie’ cheeks flushed a bright read as she quickly scanned the text. “I can’t believe I overlooked this.” Embarrassed, she quickly snatched the book out of Orion’s hands and got up. “Thanks for helping anyway.”

They made their way back to their places, the scent of jasmine and mint lingering behind. Orion was always glad if he could help a friend. A few seats down the table, Lizzie was discussing what he had just told them with Skye. He thought back on what Penny and Murphy had said on the train ride to Hogwarts a few weeks earlier.

Lizzie really had changed a lot. She seemed to be standing taller, an air of effortless confidence around her. The blush on her cheeks had made her look really pretty, reminding him of how the rush of the wind brought the colour to her face when she was flying. She was moving differently as well, more graceful and fluently, her hips swaying ever so slightly with every step she took. He had never noticed her hips swaying like that before.

McNully nudged his shoulder. “Uhm, Orion… if you don’t want to rewrite your whole essay, I’d move my quill if I was you.”

He snapped out of it and looked down at his parchment. The ink was dripping from the tip of his quill, forming a large black puddle at the end of his last sentence that was quickly spreading onto the rest of his half-finished essay.

Orion cursed under his breath, immediately drawing his wand to vanish the excess ink. Fortunately not too much of his work was ruined.

McNully raised his eyebrows. “Such a strong language, my friend. I have only heard you curse three times, so far. One time was when you crashed your broom into the commentary box and broke your wrist, the second time when you forgot the time while broom balancing and almost missed your Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. exam and the third time when you burned yourself on your cauldron and spilled Wiggenweld Potion all over Professor Snape. This reaction is 87,9 % surprising.”

He felt the heat creeping up his neck. McNully was right, he wasn’t easily enticed to displaying his emotions verbally. He hadn’t meant to let himself slip like that.

Choosing not to answer his curious friend, he committed himself to restoring the missing part of his essay. But McNully wouldn’t let it pass like that.

He was nodding in the direction of Lizzie. “I wonder if she knows how much attention she is attracting.”

Orion gripped his quill a little tighter, concentrating on finishing his sentence. He fought the urge to follow McNully’s gaze.

“Our friend has a captivating personality, for sure. But would you mind lifting the veil of ignorance from my eyes and tell me how you reached such a conclusion?”

For a moment, McNully smirked knowingly before he directed Orion’s attention over to where their roommates were sitting. He could easily make out what McNully had been referring to. Everett was eyeing the girls up without even trying to conceal it.

“Him, of course. He’s been checking Lizzie out ever since she came over to us.” He smiled innocently at him. “Why, who did you think I was talking about?”

Orion’s brow furrowed in concern. He didn’t like the predatory look on Everett’s face. This guy had somewhat of a reputation.

“Yeah, I don’t like the looks he’s giving her either,” McNully echoed his unspoken thoughts with a scowl. He leaned closer to him, putting his elbow on Orion’s shoulder in conspiratorial way. “I think we should do something about it, don’t you? And by ‘we’, I obviously mean ‘you’.”

Shaking off McNully’s hand, Orion gave him a disapproving look. “And why would I do that? He is our new Beater if you don’t recall.”

“For the sake of the team, of course!”

McNully started reciting his calculations. “I’d put the chance of him going for our little Chaser prodigy at roughly 80 %. There are some variables unaccounted for, but I’d say the chances of Lizzie falling for him lie at something around 54 %. Which would affect the team’s dynamic gravely. And we can’t have that decreasing our- I mean, your odds on winning the Quidditch Cup.”

Orion blew onto his parchment until the ink had properly dried. “You talk as if he was actually hitting her up. All he did was looking at her.”

And there was certainly nothing wrong with looking.

“Lizzie can fend for herself if need be. Besides, who am I to interfere with the course the heart is deciding to take.”

McNully looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Mate… I don’t think the heart has much to with it if you get my drift. Seriously, do something.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” He stood up and handed Professor Flitwick his work of the day.

McNully raised one eyebrow at him. “And what would that be?”

Orion gathered his strewn books and notes. “Finding balance inside and outside of my mind, my dear friend. See you at dinner.”

[imagine-your-party-hosts]

Salty Tea

Word Count: 2,146

Notes: This was my old piece for the @domesticbnhazine! I previously just had it in a google doc and wanted it to have a proper place on my blog.

Summary: It had been two years since the beloved and infamous class had graduated and began their long-awaited journey of pro-heroism when a wedding invite arrived in the mail, a small cat stamp in the corner. He was shocked - he had assumed it had been a messing up of addresses, though sure enough it was to his apartment, and when he opened the envelope and saw the names ‘Izuku Midoriya’ and ‘Ochaco Uraraka’ in their glittering gold he swayed on his feet and had to catch himself on the counter.

There was a lot to be said about Hero Class 1-A.

A majority of it could not be brought up, however, without the mention of Aizawa Shouta. After all, how could this group of students manage to tame the beast that had previously expelled all his students? What demon had they sold their soul too exactly to survive all their years at U.A.

Maybe the question should be asked of who exactly Aizawa had offered his soul to.

It was quite obvious - he’d laid it bare to the students of 1-A time and time again. He had sacrificed himself plenty of times for the good of his students and - as much as it pained him to admit it - he’d do it all over again if need be.

“You’re pretty soft on these kids!” Yamada had attempted to whisper in his ear sometime not long after these students had come to him - however, whispering had never been Yamada’s strong suit, and several heads suddenly popped up from the ten-paged essay they were supposed to be writing.

“I am not. Eleven pages,” Aizawa had said in response, knocking Yamada away from his desk and telling him to go bother Nemuri instead, and the heads suddenly sank back down to their papers.

“You’ve been pretty soft on these kids,” Yamada had said once in the teacher’s lounge. It was relaxed around the school - final exams had just ended, and graduation was nearing faster than Aizawa or his classroom had been prepared for.

“I have not,” Aizawa responded, stirring honey into the peppermint tea he was brewing that his class had bought him, the spoon knocking against the cat mug that his class had also gifted him. The kittens that stared up to him were all hand-painted little creatures, different for each of his student: a long-haired green Scottish fold, its tail too fluffy for its own good, constantly getting tripped on, curled around its little paws; a hissing abyssinian with bright red eyes that watched his every move of the spoon; a siamese with a scar trailing across his left eye, his ear a little mangled though a bright blue bow tied around his neck all the same. Aizawa’s vision blurred suddenly and briefly and he had to glance away so his tea wouldn’t be salty.

It had been two years since the beloved and infamous class had graduated and began their long-awaited journey of pro-heroism when a wedding invite arrived in the mail, a small cat stamp in the corner. He was shocked - he had assumed it had been a messing up of addresses, though sure enough it was to his apartment, and when he opened the envelope and saw the names ‘Izuku Midoriya’ and ‘Ochaco Uraraka’ in their glittering gold he swayed on his feet and had to catch himself on the counter.

They’re just kids, Aizawa thought to himself, ripping the invitation further from its hold, and he started with a revelation.

They’re adults.

A meow sounded from Aizawa’s ankles, and he hesitated, glancing down to the wide-eyed burmese that was watching him, making sure he wasn’t going to topple over. Aizawa could remember the day he got this cat - remember the day Kirishima had seen it outside in the rain from the school window and had promptly bounded from his seat regardless of Aizawa trying to stop him. “It’s raining, she can’t stay outside!” Kirishima had said when he’d came back in, his uniform sopping wet and dripping a puddle on the classroom floor. Aizawa’s lecture was immediately forgotten, as all the students suddenly hopped up to go look at the kitten curled up in Kirishima’s arms.

“She looks dopey,” Bakugou said, rolling his eyes, stepping away from it, though the cat’s wide yellow eyes just followed his figure. She meowed, loud enough for the students to all let out a simultaneous squeal.

“We can’t leave her out in the cold!” Kirishima repeated, and that was how Aizawa had ended up with a wide-eyed cat in his bag on the way home that chewed on his pens.

Aizawa would give Bakugou that she did look dopey.

He glanced back to the invitation in his hands, which was heavy and cold and held a thousand of his thoughts, ranging from the first time he saw little Midoriya and little Uraraka, terrified in his class, to the day of their graduation, much taller and much wiser than Aizawa had ever expected their little babbling forms to be. There was a brief moment that he faltered in the gold hue of the letters on the paper, before he suddenly sighed much louder than needed and went to get a pen to put in his RSVP.

These kids would be the death of him, and he knew that, and he did not mind one bit.

And so, six months later, Aizawa found himself sat in the pews beside Yamada, in a pressed suit that he’d let Yamada pick the tie for. They were matching, both such a bright and obnoxious yellow that Aizawa was blinded every time he glanced down to straighten it, but he supposed it wasn’t the worst thing Yamada could have picked out. It could be decorated with brightly colored birds, or it could make noise, so Aizawa would just consider the canary colored tie a blessing for now.

Midoriya was already standing at the front, though Aizawa had thought that for once he shouldn’t have been so early. He was completely red, freckles hidden in the crimson, his scarred hands shaking just barely. Aizawa could see the Scottish fold, its too-long and too-fluffy tail getting caught in his paws and making him tumble down, when suddenly music started playing from and Yamada nudged Aizawa’s shoulder to glance behind him.

It started with Mina and Bakugou, and he was surprised that their arms were linked together without a large argument, regardless of Mina’s bright, teasing grin and nudging of Bakugou’s tensed shoulder. The hissing and snapping Abyssinian was for once silent, its red eyes only staring straight ahead, while the Sphynx beside him was only flicking her tail back and forth playfully.

Then there was Tsuyu and Kirishima, Kirishima grinning brightly and marching down the aisle, Tsuyu being dragged behind him. Neither had wanted to be painted as a cat on Aizawa’s mug - Tsuyu had wanted to be a frog, naturally, and while she’d settled on being a hopping Munchkin kitten Kirishima was not content until he was proud German Shepherd, chasing after Sero’s much too long tail. Next was Jiro and Kaminari, Kaminari a rigid Bengal that the Manx beside him had to roll her eyes at and calm down. Iida walked down the aisle with Hagakure as his side; Iida was a Siberian that sat tall and regal, and Hagakure had said she wanted to be a Persian with their smushed-in faces that she adored, only seen for the bright pink collar it wore with its jingling bell.

Lastly came Todoroki and Momo, both smiling comfortably, seemingly at something shared a moment before the doors open - perhaps about Bakugou’s for once uncomfortable stance. Aizawa thought of the Siamese, with its torn ear and bright blue bow that was too big for its little frame, and when he saw Momo with her long hair down he had a remembrance of the Russian blue on his mug, pristine and beautiful with its perfectly groomed coat. He almost forgot what he was truly here for, wondering if he’d just came to check up on his students, who, yes, thank you, thank you, were alive and well, when Yamada shoved him once more and his breath caught in his throat.

Uraraka suddenly stepped out into the aisle, her father by her side. Aizawa had not thought he’d ever seen her in a long dress, and he’d never truly expected it, though here she was, in a long white wedding gown that flared out at her hips. She was grinning, tears already in her eyes, and Aizawa could not remember when exactly he’d felt tears pricking at the back of his own eyes. Uraraka still had her red, round cheeks, and Aizawa was suddenly overcome with the idea that he didn’t want Yamada to see him cry here when he saw that Yamada was already bawling. Uraraka was a small little ragdoll on his mug, fur a little pink at its cheeks, sitting beside the Scottish fold and trying to help it walk a little further without tripping on its tail, and when Aizawa turned some in his seat he saw the little Scottish fold crying as well.

Aizawa did not bother to stop the tear that fell down his cheek for once.

Yamada suddenly clapped Aizawa much too forcefully on his shoulder, jostling several more tears down his cheeks that he did reach up to hurriedly brush away. “It’s amazing that they’ve come this far, y’know?” he said in-between choked sobs.

Aizawa paused for a moment, before he slowly nodded his head, turning to watch Uraraka once more as her father led her down the aisle.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, underneath his breath, “Amazing.”

Throughout the whole ceremony the two teachers continued their tears; Yamada, loud and choking, Aizawa silent and almost serene. Aizawa however had managed to calm his crying by the time of the reception, while Yamada was still a sniffling mess beside him.

“Stop crying. It’s going to make your soup salty,” Aizawa told him once they’d sat down at a table with several of the other teachers, Nemuri teasingly nudging his elbow.

“Maybe I like it that way,” Yamada responded wetly, nudging Nemuri back.

At one point throughout the ceremony Kirishima made his way over to the reminiscing teachers’ table, pulling up a chair beside Aizawa.

“How’s that kitten?” he asked, still with the bright, sharp-toothed grin that he’d had since the first day he’d stepped foot in class 1-A.

Bakugou was not far behind. “Still look as dopey?” he asked, still with the sharp and smart gleam to his eyes.

Had they really aged, or was this just another day in the classroom, just another day of pretend?

Uraraka came up behind Yamada in her beautiful long dress, glittery and sparkling and Aizawa knew this was in no way and every way the same class that had left his care all those years ago.

“Yeah, still dopey,” Aizawa responded, and Uraraka laughed, Yamada giving a start when he realized she was behind him, suddenly starting his sobbing full force again.

“Aizawa-sensei!” Midoriya began as he came up beside his wife, reaching to place a hand to her side as he neared. It was such a strange sight, Aizawa thought, that he wasn’t stammering, that his hands weren’t shaking.

“You don’t have to call me that anymore,” Aizawa started to say, waving that off, however Kirishima pounced, clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

“Really, Shoto-san-“

“Never mind,” Aizawa said in response, while Yamada laughed loudly beside him.

“Speaking of that. I guess your last name is Midoriya, hmm, Ochaco-chan?” he asked, still shamelessly with the tears trailing down his cheeks, turning in his chair to the newlyweds behind him.

“You’re right! It’ll be something to get used to,” she said, grinning as she glanced over to her husband, and Yamada dabbed at his eyes, sighing over-dramatically about young love.

“Aizawa-sensei!” came another voice, Hagakure bounding up to join the table. “We all need a picture together!”

“Is that necessary-“ Aizawa began to say, though there was a sudden uproar cheer for a photo, Yamada the loudest of them all.

“Okay, okay!” Aizawa agreed, effectively settling them all down as Kirishima gathered the rest of the wedding party, his students grinning so brightly at him that Aizawa was almost blinded.

“Come on!” he was tugged from his chair by Kaminari and Kirishima, while Nemuri giggled and Yamada offered to take the photo. Ochaco grinned as he joined them, wrapping an arm around him and Midoriya while on the other side of him Kirishima hooked an arm around his shoulders.

“Everyone! You too, Bakugou!” Kirishima hooted, and, though he rolled his eyes, he still joined in, until everyone had their arms wrapped around someone.

“Smile!” Yamada said, and, apparently not satisfied, he repeated it louder. “SMILE!”

Aizawa was suddenly overcome with a feeling he could not place, surrounded by his old students at an event he’d never fathomed taking place, in a bright yellow tie that did not fit him. He could not believe he’d watched these children grow from students to heroes, from best friends to husband and wife, from children to adults. He felt the same uncomfortable pricking behind his eyes that had been following him all day, and he could not stop the tears that unexpectedly came down his cheeks.

Yamada only grinned a bright grin himself and snapped the photo.

[royalnoir]

Real Estate Problem Solver

Advantages There are many areas one can invest in. Since I was 15 yr old I have looked for the fastest, most effective way to accumulate a lot of huge selection, with the least amount of risk. I am now 58. Even while looking for this road to truth, I spent time and effort in the school of hard knocks. The school of very hard knocks is a very interesting but painful school to attend. It is also the most expensive way to learn something, but if you graduate you have a PHD in what to do and not do together with time and money. The schools I attended happen to be: Investing in businesses as a silent partner, owning my own enterprises, working for another family member-in my case my father, selecting publicly traded stocks and securities, penny mining stock option, commodity trading, investing in gold and silver, real estate private lending, housing development, real estate remodeling, buying foreclosure properties. I equally worked as a real estate problem solver/matchmaker, bringing business owners as well as business buyers, and matching up real estate owners utilizing real estate buyers. Writing about all of these activities would take the encyclopedia, so we will limit this essay towards the kinds of situations you can run across in the real estate school for hard knocks. I will present my solution with the assigned situation. There are more than one possible solution and I receive you to come up with other possible solutions as you read. Any time you get some value from my experiences that will hopefully decrease tuition to the real estate school of hard knocks. Experience free to e-mail me your comments, alternate solution or perhaps stories. Do, please, let me know that it is all right in my circumstances to publish them. My Real Estate Philosophy As a way of presenting myself, I thought you might find what lessons I have discovered, after all these years of real estate, interesting. Buy real estate property instead of stocks, bonds, mutual funds, or commodities. If you pick a winner in one of these non-real estate areas you can take 5-10 times your money. When you are wrong, in one of these non-real estate areas, you can actually loose up to 90% of your bucks. In real estate, if you are not greedy-not trying to get rich quick-in one year, you can make 100 times your money, on the upside. The particular downside risk is only based on how well you looked at the possibilities ahead of time. If you did, the downside risk is without a doubt reduced to only the holding time to fix an error. If you rush in and do not explore all the possibilities of a small business venture, you can actually loose 100% of your money. In my thought process an upside of 100 times profit is better than 10 times profit. My philosophy on real estate ownership seems to have changed in the last 15 years. I used to think that reselling at the top of the market was the smart move and buying from the crash. Now I feel that buying when prices are actually down is still a smart move but never selling will be way to go. In order to hold on to a property in a down market you require the most proper planning to survive the crash. This I call up a back door or emergency plan. This is have a very good plan and knowing what you will do if everything travels wrong with you original plan. When you have a backup prepare, you rarely need it. This is the basis of my vision. With this understanding, you might more clearly see why I did exactly what I did in these situations. The Stories and content: The area of real estate investing is one of the most complex mainly because it is a combination of law and real estate. It is one of the most helpful because fortunes are made and lost in this area, and the statistics are so enormous. Lastly it is an area where criminals can make a lot of money and many times get away with it. Following will be some stories (case histories) I have dealt with and some posts I have written on the subject of fraud in real estate. Finally, I had included an article on the basics of foreclosures and properties in general, for your interest. I hope you enjoy them. The Memories: Story #1: It was early March 2000 and That i received a call from Kevin. He said that he had heard about me from some mutual friends. The guy wanted to speculate in buying HUD houses (Properties the fact that the Government had foreclosed on). He wanted to buy them, take care of them up and then sell them at a profit. He previously heard that I had bought many foreclosures in the 70's and 80's and he was hoping I could encourage him. We met for lunch and he told me his life story. The important part of this conversation will be that he had bought a boarded up 14 appliance apartment building in downtown San Bernardino, across the street, collected from one of of the roughest high schools in California. By the last part of the meeting, I had figured out that he had overpaid with regards to $75, 000 for the building, he had already wasted $200, 000 trying to remodel it, and it was still $100, 000 away from being finished. He had bought it 1 . 5 years ago and a large part of his costs was the eye on all his loans, related to this project. She was now broke, and in deep trouble, but also in his mind, the badly needed money was upcoming. It is interesting to note where he got the money to get this project. 4 years earlier he was given cash to buy an apartment building by his father. He was given enough money that he only needed a very small $150, 000 real estate loan to purchase a building in Pasadena that cost him a total of $525, 000. To buy the San Bernardino rehab project, he first refinanced the first trust deed on the Pasadena building and ran the loan balance to $385, 000. When which will money was gone he borrowed $74, 000 in the form of second Trust Deed on both the Pasadena and San Bernardino properties. By the way, that loan cost him 15% interest and $15, 000 in up front fees to see the money. Before we parted, I told him that they made a very expense mistake in buying San Bernardino. I explained that from the day he bought a building it was a sure bet that the project may fail. I then had to tell him that I would not lend the pup any money on San Bernardino, to save his butt. Covering the next 2 months I received periodic phone calls, sharing me the progress of the fund raising. One of those posts I was told that the existing 2nd Trust Action lender was saying that he might give Kevin all the added $100, 000 he needed to finish the venture. At the same time, Kevin also believed he had found a bank or investment company that might refinance all the loans of San Bernardino. The issue with the bank loan was that the appraisal fee was $3, 000, and it had to be paid in advance, even to just simply apply for the loan. Again Kevin asked me for money. Again I refused to put more good money along his black hole. Then one morning I got a label from Kevin, "If I don't make the $2, 000 payment to the 2nd trust deed holder, he'll almost certainly start foreclosure in 2 days. Kevin also explained "The 2nd trust deed lender said that he would certainly buy the Pasadena apartment building for what I had settled it, 4 years ago, $525, 000. " The feature had a stipulation to it. Kevin had to bring the actual loan current first. In my mind, if Kevin could quite possibly bring the loan current, why would he sometimes bother to sell the property for a wholesale price? I wasn't able to believe what I was hearing. After hearing involves I decide that it is time I stop saying hardly any and help. What Kevin thought he wanted was initially a real estate loan for a lot of money. The truth is, that finances was not the solution to his problem. The problem had to be distinct from what Kevin believed, which is why the problem persisted. The real issue was not more borrowing. More borrowing meant more money downward the drain. Experience has taught me, "If this challenge was what Kevin thought it was, it wouldn't deemed a problem. " What does this phrase mean? The businessman has a financial set back. He thinks that through some short term funding he can recover from the set back not to mention return to the top. After looking around, our businessman will usually have the money, but strangely enough the problem doesn't resolve. When the problem did correct itself, then the businessman was ideal about what the problem was, and the problem would be gone. Normally the money doesn't help, but the businessman doesn't understand that. The person doesn't realize that the problem wasn't money in the first place. Should it were, the problem would now be gone. Lets us continue the explanation. The last money borrowed is now gone as well as problem persists, so our businessman goes out to find a higher cost to solve the problem that didn't solve with the money she borrowed, the first time. What happens the second time? The same thing. The money is required up and still the problem continues. Our businessman is implementing the wrong problem. The problem is not money, or the problem would've been gone. Kevin thought the problem was money. The software wasn't. He had already poured $300, 000 into the San Bernardino building, on top of the $209, 000 1st Put your trust in Deed loan that came about when he bought any building. Before he was finished, he spent through $500, 000 in a building that needs $100, 000 to accomplish, but was only worth $475, 000, after it had been finished. What could I do? Use what the good master gave me. 30 years of experience, on the subject of arising from problems that I created when I was young and eco-friendly. Here was the war strategy. I got Kevin for you to agree to turn over total management of the two properties with me. Knowing that I was managing the property and working on the things I believed was the correct problem, I felt snug about loaning money on this deal. If I can't put your trust in myself to solve this problem, whom can I trust? I begun by loaning Kevin $25, 000 to make needed vehicle repairs to the Pasadena building, pay the property taxes and to produce the first and second loans current on the Pasadena place only. Nothing was to be spent at this time, on the San Bernardino building. Now that I controlled the Pasadena flat building, I discovered what repairs the building needed. Typically the list was so long it took one man with three months, full time, to fully handle it. I then did a very descriptive market study and determined what the market would spend in rents. I asked the tenants for a menu of everything they wanted done in their apartments to be content. I then did everything the tenants requested and I then raised their rents 30%. After the building was 100 %, I raised the rents another 15%. The value of your building went up and I received an deliver for $725, 000. This was $200, 000 more than the value 6 months earlier. I put it into escrow, then I realized that I could raise the rents some more. I just raised the rents again in escrow and pressured the buyer to pay another $25, 000 for the building. Sending the price to $750, 000. That $225, 000 turn a profit was needed to help cover the money being lost throughout San Bernardino. Author's Note: The escrow fell by means of and the building was kept until this update, 12 , 5, 2004. The building is now in escrow pertaining to $1, 583, 000 What did I do about San Bernardino? I contacted the seller/lender and asked your pet if he would like me to pull the safety guard out of the building and let him have it instruction online foreclosure. He didn't want it back, even though he pretended that he was willing to do that. He offered me $25, 000 in incentives to get me to personally provide loans the money necessary for the completion of the building, so the person wouldn't have to take it back. For 3 months he attempted to get me to put money into the building, with the indisputable fact that once I put my money in I wouldn't disappear from it. The real story was that I wouldn't put the dime into that black hole until I discovered how to make it recover at least $100, 000 of Kevin's lost money. I asked for a $70, 000 lower price on the note, and offered to pay him off. We all negotiated for two months. Just when I was ready to surface finish the deal, the seller sold his note to someone else just for only a $30, 000 discount. I was not able to produce the money I wanted because now the new note holder sought 100% of interest and principal due. This used a monkey wrench into my negotiating. All this occasion, I had a buyer standing in the wings to buy the particular building from Kevin while I was negotiating. My spouse and i was then forced to sell the property to this buyer and also Kevin recovered only a little bit of his investment. The lender plus I were both playing a high stakes poker adventure. I lost this round. If I could have gotten typically the payoff reduced, Kevin would received a large hunk in money from an "as is" sale. This is what When i call playing "Craps" on a very big Monopoly panel. Author's Note: The buyer, thinking he was going to put $125, 000 to finish the remodeling, notified me, after one year, that he had spent $300, 000 to finish the making. The apartment building values were increasing rapidly do your best period, so Kevin's project was increasing in importance at the same time the buyer was going deeper and deeper to construction costs. The buyer made out all right in the end. Should the market had died, he would have lost $200, 000 on this building after Kevin had already lost a lot. It's all about timing, isn't it? Kevin learned that dollars alone was not the answer to his problems; he expected a Genie, to turn his turkey into a swan. Tale #2 Janet is the daughter of one of my oldest and wealthiest friends and clients. We have been doing realty deals together since 1975. Janet and her groom started buying distressed real estate in Phoenix Arizona through 1994, which was 8 years ago when it was the thing to try. It was now Dec 2000. The market appears to be slowing down as well as did after September 11, 2001. Janet had been continuously borrowing money from her father, whenever things received too difficult. She later sold everything in The phoenix airport and bought property in Northern California. Then on 1999, one year before I was brought in, she began buying real estate in Kansas City. One day Janet's papa called me and asked for my help. He had credited his daughter $200, 000 and felt that every little thing she owned was upside down. (Loans more than the market worth. ). This was further complicated by the fact that if your lover sold her properties, to pay off her father, the capital advances taxes would eat up any cash, from the sale. As well as all this, Janet kept asking for more money to keep up the installments on the properties that had a negative cash flow and couldn't have enough rental income. He hired me to help the daughter and agreed to pay my fee. I would manage this 40 years old kid, to get her to return the woman fathers $200, 000 and make herself totally arrears free. Janet and I met. She was remarkable. She did know what she was doing, as far as selecting good real estate deals. She owned, at the time of our appointment, 10 properties located in 2 different states, and it has $500, 000 in equity. If we could get it through, before her father had a stroke things could well be great. Janet agreed to the arrangement, happily, if I might be her adviser, not his. Her father agreed to fill whatever money was requested as long as I approved the software. Also I had to be the one to ask Janet's dad for the money, since the upset between the farther and daughter was basically getting unbearable. This is what we did. A list of needed maintenance tasks was created for each of the 11 properties. Bids were been given and the work ordered to be done within 30 days. I thought this was not to take months. It had to be done immediately therefore we could go to step two. Step 2 was to put on the market many of the expensive Northern California property. To my disbelief, Janet wanted to move her family, to a new city, in the center of all this and her father agreed to let her complete the work. She had found an old run down house that the woman felt was undervalued. That meant that her good old residence was put into the group of properties to sell. Market is what we planned to do. Everything was to be placed on the market, and sold at the best price to be been given, but sold regardless. The property in Kansas was that should be repaired and fully rented. The properties that could be offered for sale at what we thought was full retail, were even put on the market. The plan was that when everything was advertised, the father would get paid off; the loans on the staying properties would be paid off and the balance of the cash will be put into the bank. Since all of the Kansas deals appear to be a good quality investment, Janet could now continue to buy more Kansas property, (she had only been spending $25, 000 on each deal) but for all cash. The rental prices coming in would generate enough income for her family to live a life on without having to ask for money from dad or touching her investment nest egg. That was the plan. I forgot one last thing. Because many of the properties had been bought yrs ago on a 1031 exchanges (tax-free exchange), the capital gain tax burden was going to eat up the cash proceeds. That was one of the traps Jesse fell into. She felt she couldn't sell with out buying a replacement. Of course by not liquidating before starting anew, she would never get out of debt with her real estate providers or her father. The solution, for this problem was much easier than one would think. First, the father did a 1031 exchange with Janet for one of the big profit properties. The father sold Janet his personal residences for basically no money down. Now Janet rented her father the place he lives in. So much for capital gains place a burden on on the $150, 000 profit in that one big selling. The second big profit was in the house Janet currently were living in. That was tax-free under the current laws. Since the other sorts of houses sold had smaller profits, it was decided the business decision to get out of debt was more crucial than avoiding paying any taxes. Author's Note: Which was the plan. So what happened? Janet decided she didn't would like to sell the junk in Kansas and fired others. She refused to pay her father back and as regarding December 2004 he had not seen a dime. Dad has deducted what she owes him from him / her inheritance, which will be put into a trust administered by the brother for the benefit of the grandchildren. Real estate in Los angeles skyrocketed after 9/11/01 terrorist attack and her real estate all doubled in value. Summary: Everyone thinks the fact that his or her problem is not confrontable and therefore unsolvable. I have found who someone other than myself can solve my un-confrontable challenges in 10 min and I can do the same for the kids. It is not a question of being smarter, or more experienced, nonetheless experience helps a lot when coming up with easy solutions, promptly. It is really that we all are willing to confront someone else's problems quite easy than our own. When we are willing to confront our own problem head-on, solutions begin to appear miraculously. What I do is guidance people take their mountains and turn them within molehills. The molehills are then flattened with ease. Instructions to learn: First, do not think you are smarter than the individuals passed this way before you; you're not. Second, markets never go up forever, have not performed as if they will. Third, if you are not even prepared for the worst, it will kill you. If you are completely ready, it will only hurt a little. You will survive and can be purchased away much richer in the end.

[madscientistjournal]

Fiction: Excerpts From the Audio Notes

An essay by Jim Dennath, P. (Eldritch) E., as provided by Jonathan Ficke Art by Leigh Legler

Day 1

Finally, a place where my desire to dream beyond the bounds of what a rational engineer may dream, to build that which ought never be built, to be the mad engineer that breaks down barriers, and possibly ends the world–Fimbulvetr Industries. I confess that I saw their job posting and sent my résumé to them on a lark–who would have thought that the premiere apocalyptic science and engineering conglomerate would want me? But they did, so here I am walking the austere gunmetal hallways, seeing the laboratories where the cutting edge of apocalyptic science is conducted. And everything is so clean! It’s the platonic form of Nordic design. I couldn’t imagine a better place to undergo hours of trite human resources onboarding nonsense.

At least they have a slogan: Building a Better End of Days, Today.

It’s perfect.

~

Fimbulvetr is not screwing around. I’ve been here a day and have access to the development lab of my dreams. Good devils below, there’s an entire team of assistants at my beck and call. The job is simple–as simple as engineering a possibly world-ending device is concerned that is–build a device to create a stable planar gateway to the nether realm to allow the creatures of the dark beyond access to the mortal plane of existence.

Should be fun!

Turns out the ancient Assyrians were super into the nether realm. The Fimbulvetr archives have hundreds of original clay tablets recovered (read: stolen or plundered) from archaeological sites across the Levant. As it so happens, however, I cannot read cuneiform.

Good news, though! Ivan, a twitchy Russian ex-pat with an eyepatch, has been the most useful in that regard. He tells me he studied and taught ancient languages at a university in Kiev, stumbled on something he’s only muttered about as “the impossible realities,” and they fired him for gibbering too much during lectures. Their loss is my gain.

There’s also a linguist to help interpret the texts, Bernice, an Alabaman with absolutely the sweetest accent and the keenest eye for the dark logic employed by the forces of darkness. Who would have imagined that demons employed passive aggressive language? When I expressed my disbelief, Bernice said “bless your heart,” and told me it makes her feel right at home. What a lovely person.

With Ivan and Bernice’s help, the task came into focus. We have a great deal of work ahead of us.

There’s also Jeffrey. He doesn’t talk much, and near as I can tell, he’s mainly here to pick up heavy things at my direction. He does so at a languid pace. He must be hourly.

~

Day 3

This was prototyping day. Based on Ivan’s translations, and Bernice’s helpful interpretation of archaic Assyrian linguistics, we needed both a lot of eldritch energy and a focusing medium to stretch the planar gate across.

First thing first, we measure eldritch energy in crowleys, like proper modern folk who are concerned with repeatable design. Ancient Assyrians? No such luck. They simply killed an absolutely mind-boggling number of people until they got what they wanted. I’m honestly a little impressed by their can-do attitude. It worked for them, so what grounds do I have to criticize? I can, however, complain that it makes their cuneiform tablets as hard to use as blueprints in a modern workshop.

Anyway, since we don’t know exactly how many crowleys we need, I’m ball parking the sum at: a lot of crowleys.

Also, we need something to channel the crowleys into a cascading web of interconnecting focus points–essentially a matrix of dark energy that can fray the boundary between our world and the eldritch void we seek to contact. The ancient Assyrians came up with an answer for this too. That answer is femurs. We need a lot of femurs.

If we need a lot of femurs, then we’re going to need a lot of volunteers. After all, each one can only contribute two femurs, and we’re going to need twenty-three femurs. That means approximately twelve volunteers, assuming our pool of volunteers does not include too many above-the-knee amputees or people with low bone density. This might be tricky.

~

Day 4

Not that tricky! You know what was tricky? Getting Jeffrey to gather all of the human thighs and separate the meat from the bones. It was a simple request, Jeffrey!

But, I digress. Did you know there’s a group of people on the internet who call themselves “thigh enthusiasts?” Naturally, I gravitated toward this group of people, as I figured that anyone so enthusiastic about thighs would likely have high quality femurs.

This was not, in fact, the case. The yield of quality femurs from a single thigh enthusiast, which one could reasonably assume be close to, if not precisely, two femurs, is actually much closer to 1.1 per enthusiast. Most are men in their thirties; how is their bone structure and density so bad? What comprises their diet that they have the bone density of an elderly person with a severe calcium deficiency? This is, of course, not the question I’ve been hired to solve. It must remain a mystery for another day.

What we lacked in quality, we were able to make up for in quantity. Thigh enthusiasts are an easily baited group. Promise an internet message board an abundance of thighs, and like ten grand each, and boom, even with the comically low femur yield, I’ve got all the femurs an engineer could possibly desire. Really, it’s almost a problem. I’ve practically got too many femurs. Jeffrey certainly thinks we have too many femurs, but that is a Jeffrey problem.

So, with a massive stockpile of femurs at our disposal, it’s time to begin constructing a web of twenty-three femurs arranged in a circle with a radius precisely calibrated to focus crowleys!

~

Day 6

Well, I’ve summoned a demon. More on this later. At least I won’t have to worry about Jeffrey slacking anymore. More on this later as well.

I rate this experience as a qualified success.

~

Day 7

Good news! We’ve sealed the demon in my original development lab. Fimbulvetr has given me a new workshop. It’s buried farther underground.

The boys upstairs have also given me a squad of armed guards at all times. Hans Jürgen leads the team of barrel-chested men with assault rifles and bandoliers of grenades. Seems a touch of overkill, but it wouldn’t do to have a demon ruthlessly dismember a useful member of the team.

(Oh … right, Jeffrey was–literally–pulled limb from limb by a seven-armed reptilian beast with eleven mouths and three wings. As it happens, and this would be a subject better suited for a mad evolutionary biologist, demons have very strange anatomy.)

In any case, we have a very solid prototype planar gateway generator in existence. No idea how to control it. No way to manage what passes through. No clue what’s on the other side, and the boys upstairs tell me it’s not nearly big enough.

On account of me not being dead, I am willing to increase my assessment of this situation from qualified success to moderate success.

Add in Jeffrey’s demise and we might be flirting with major success territory.

~

Day 5

Yes, out of chronological order, but I was far too busy fleeing a rampaging hell beast to take proper notes on the actual Day 5. So let’s all be aware that it was recorded on Day 7, but ought to slot in at Day 5. Deal? Deal.

So, get this, turns out virgins, not super effective conduits of eldritch power. I know, really came out of left field to me too. It’s all you ever read about: virgin sacrifice this, the world’s running out of eligible virgins that. Guess what, virgins, you’re not that special!

Turns out, the sanguineous humors of debauched people–now that’s the blood you want to charge a planar gate. So we threw an orgy. Well, we advertised an orgy, lit some candles, provided massage oils and a room full of impractically sized pillows, and once we had a room full of good old-fashioned debauchery underway, that’s when we threw a massacre. It was all very efficient.

I was able to capture thirteen crowleys of spiritual energy in the blood agony harvester (which we constructed mostly from tibias and fibulas, the ancient Assyrians–a very efficient people when it came to human sacrifice–were big on using every part of the sacrificial victim, particularly leg bones). Granted, we’re still getting a handle on precisely how many crowleys of energy will be necessary to sustain a transplanar crossing, but I figured what we had was a good first effort.

Naturally, excited as I was from that success, I couldn’t help but turn to my assembled femur matrix and plug in all that sweet human suffering. It worked, and after experiencing the fabric of realty shred before my eyes, and hearing the distilled shriek of millions of disembodied souls, a demon ripped through the planar gate and started absolutely taking Jeffrey to town.

I ran, sealed the door, and changed my drawers.

~

(Oh … right, Jeffrey was–literally–pulled limb from limb by a seven-armed reptilian beast with eleven mouths and three wings. As it happens, and this would be a subject better suited for a mad evolutionary biologist, demons have very strange anatomy.)

Day 14

Good thing I had all those femurs, because the boys upstairs want a lot of transplanar gates constructed. Without Jeffrey (typical Jeffrey, even in death he’s slacking off), it took more than a week to build a whole bunch of gates in reinforced containment cells. That way, when the demons rip through, we’ve got ’em right where we want ’em. Locked up nice and tight until we can figure out how best to unleash them on an unsuspecting world.

So here we are, two weeks into the job (they’re paying me in arrears, which means I don’t get paid until the second pay period is complete, truly barbaric; hopefully my benefits are already accruing. I don’t want to miss out on any compound interest.), and I have twenty-three individually contained planar gates made from five-hundred-twenty-nine femurs. I wonder if I hunted thigh enthusiasts onto the endangered species list? Each planar gate sits in a specially constructed holding cell built of concrete and steel.

The holding cells themselves are all on a central corridor buried deep underground. At the end of the corridor is the control room, where I work. From there, I have the ability to route crowleys into the planar gates, as well as control each individual cell door.

Behind the control room, a twenty-three-foot diameter vault door that is twenty-three-feet-thick seals the whole operation off from the access shaft that leads to the rest of Fimbulvetr headquarters.

We are so ready to summon some demons.

Or, we would be ready to summon some demons, if we had enough crowleys. This is going to take a lot of massage oil.

~

Day 20

It’s been a tiring but productive six days. I like to think we’ve done the ancient Assyrians proud. Good thing we got a bulk rate on massage oil.

The blood agony harvesters are practically humming with energy, and the boys upstairs have quintupled my detail of armed guards.

A few keep very close eyes on me, and with the exception of Hans Jürgen, they communicate exclusively by way of hand signals, and are frequently checking their weapons and ammunition. It’s as if they assume that at any moment a demon might leap into this world. I asked Hans Jürgen about the increase in guards, and he says that they’re here to prevent anyone from being Jeffried.

Jeffried. His laziness has been immortalized by becoming a verb in the Fimbulvetr lexicon. Where’s the justice in that?

But let’s not let Jeffrey’s perpetual incompetence interfere with our objective. In the morning, we get to channel distilled human suffering into a series of arrays constructed from human long bones. What could possibly go wrong?

~

Day 21

A lot can go wrong.

Holy shit, a lot can go wrong.

I threw the switch and opened the crowley reservoir. The hair on the back of my arms stood on end as the cables that ran from reservoir to the holding cells and attached to the transplanar gates inside writhed like live serpents with the energy.

As had been the case with the first rift, reality shifted in front of my eyes, and an otherworldly howl threatened to burst my eardrums. The screams faded, but then a series of sounds like the piercing chime of twenty-three bells rang through the corridor, and I heard it even in the control room. A tiny red light blinked on the control panel indicating lock failure on each door.

Hans Jürgen flashed hand signs to his men and everyone spread out, rifles at their shoulders, covering the cell doors. It didn’t matter. Moments later, the cell doors ripped open and twenty-three demons tore out of confinement into the corridor.

Ivan and Bernice had volunteered to check each containment cell, so they were in the hallway and were the first to die.

The snare drum report of automatic weapon fire filled the air, grenades provided a tympanic percussion beneath the gunfire, but none of it mattered.

Everyone got Jeffried.

Everyone but me. I’m sitting in the control room behind a pane of glass staring into the nearly countless eyes of twenty-three demons and hoping they don’t realize that the control room door doesn’t actually have a lock on it.

Oh, shit.

[Inarticulate screaming]

Jim Denath, P. (Eldritch) E., holds the distinction of being the only youth scout to be dismissed from the national organization for designing an autonomous drone that hunted down and cooked ants with a magnifying glass. He parlayed that (minor) infamy into a scholarship to attend the Polytechnic Institute of Apocalyptic Studies, and subsequently a position at Fimbulvtr Industries, where he is now the only person with a professional engineering license currently being used as the torture plaything of twenty-three demonic fellbeasts.

Jonathan Ficke lives outside of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with his beautiful wife. He graduated from Marquette University with a degree in public relations, which (in a manner of speaking) is another form of speculative storytelling, His work appears in Mad Scientist Journal Spring 2018, Writers of the Future: Vol. 34, and Tales of Ruma. He muses online at jonficke.com and on twitter @jonficke.

Leigh’s professional title is “illustrator,” but that’s just a nice word for “monster-maker,” in this case. More information about them can be found at http://leighlegler.carbonmade.com/.

“Excerpts From the Audio Notes” is © 2019 Jonathan Ficke Art accompanying story is © 2019 Leigh Legler

Fiction: Excerpts From the Audio Notes was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

[natsubeatsrock]

“Lisanna meant more dead than alive.”

This statement is one that I've seen pop up very often. This always comes up whenever the discussion comes to her in-series role post-Edolas. As the argument goes, she was important to characters before she was thought to be dead. But when she came back, she had little to do with and was pushed to the sidelines. 

A few years ago, I would have probably made a different post than this. What I would probably have done is defend Lisanna's usefulness in series to characters after her return. I'd maybe even blame the fandom for how things ultimately went down and point out the hypocrisy of this statement.  

However, I've thought about this particular statement more as I think more about changing the series as a whole. One of the tricky things about what I want to do is make stuff that didn't happen in any form of Fairy Tail seem at least plausible. To do anything important, I have to justify my decisions with 

I want to (and plan to) give her more stuff to do, but there's kind of a limit. Like, I could absolutely do stuff like make Lisanna about as important as Lucy to the series if I wanted to. She could be a member of Team Natsu who gets her own major fights and substantial screen time. However, at that point, I feel like I'd go too far past what could have happened. 

And, after the whole thing with Mashima in France, I started to ask myself a different question: Would we, as a fandom, actually want Lisanna to do more in the series after coming back? 

Off the bat, part of me is skeptical of this question because of the reaction to stuff like additions to the anime. Shinji Ishihara and his team added a ton of stuff about Lisanna that wasn't in the original manga. While I think that they're all amazing additions, especially when they deal with her impact on other characters, this isn't the consensus opinion. To many people, this is exactly the kind of thing that drove them to believe that she was going to do more stuff in the future. They wish this kind of stuff wasn't added so they wouldn't get their hopes up for the future. 

But, that might just be me being pessimistic. I mean, after all, that's the anime. Any changes from any manga into anime usually are met with some level of hostility by fans. It would be insane of me to think that they could just add more moments for Lisanna and it not get ripped apart as stuff that didn't happen like most other anime-only moments. 

And, of course, it's not like every addition the anime made was treated well by fans. Some (usually the Nalu-oriented stuff) are well-liked, but fans considered the anime-only arcs to be among the worst, usually citing Daphne arc as the worst arc in the series. (Not for long, though.) And Gruvia fans aren't too happy with how Juvia was treated in some of those arcs.

What about if Mashima himself decided to incorporate more of Lisanna in the manga? That's definitely worth thinking about for a bit.

After all, we apparently almost got a love triangle between her, Natsu, and Lucy. Would we be able to handle the implications of Lisanna getting enough time for fans to genuinely be convinced that she might end up with Natsu? (Not that what we got stopped fans like me, to begin with.) What's more, would this fandom be okay with the possibility of her actually ending up with Natsu? 

And I know some of you may be thinking, "That would be weird, Natsu and Lisanna wouldn't be that popular." What if it were? What if Mashima actually wrote the series so that more people were convinced that Nali was going to happen over Nalu? Heck, what if that wasn't the case and it just happened that Nali ended up actually being the more popular ship? 

Of course, that's only ships. There's plenty of other ways Lisanna could have been more important in the series after her return. For instance, what if she actually did join Team Natsu? Yeah, what if probably of the only things I like about those "Lucy leaves" stories actually end up happening and Lisanna actually gets to work along with Natsu, Lucy and the rest of the main gang? 

What would that be like? How would she stack up against some of the more serious threats in the series? (Hopefully, her Tartaros matchup would be better than Lamy.) 

But that's not the only way she could have become more important. What would it be like if Lisanna were to actually get more important moments as a side character? 

Here's a simple one: What if she were the one to take Wendy's place in the Grand Magic Games, instead of Elfman? That would mean she takes them up to compete in Labyrinth, she's the one who gets to fight Bacchus (for herself and Mira, no less), and she'd still probably end up severely injured after the fact. Is that something that would honestly be seen as okay for Lisanna to do? 

Now, I'm not going to pretend that I absolutely know how the fandom would react to these questions. However, I don't want these to be questions that the fandom as a whole considers. I feel as though you should ask yourself some of these questions. I think it would be irresponsible for me to do this and not give my own opinions on this. 

I'd absolutely love to see more of Lisanna. I'd love to see how a potential romantic relationship, successful or otherwise, would be written between her and Natsu with a love triangle in mind. (Though, I'm absolutely not disappointed that we didn't get a love triangle.) I'd love to see what it would be like if she were an actual member of the strongest team. It would be cool to see how she would act in a fight post-Edolas. I mean, she showed more progress in her magic than Elfman. 

On that note, I don't know that Lisanna going instead of Elfman is that insane an idea. Obviously, it didn't happen, but it's not like it couldn't have happened. Lisanna proved to be better than Elfman at Take-Over magic before going to Edolas. With enough training, she could probably outdo Elfman again in terms of skill. Of course, I say that and I'll probably make it so Elfman goes like in canon proper. 

The one thing I would be worried about is that I'm not sure how getting more of Lisanna would impact her character. As the series went on [insert specific characters here that we all disagree got worse over time] were written as worse than they were introduced to us as. Of course, the rest of the series fell off after [insert point when the series fell off we can't seem to agree on]. However, it especially hurts to see characters act against established motivations of and learned lessons from previous arcs. 

With Lisanna, we didn't have as much time to establish her character as, Juvia or Levy, secondary characters fans argue got worse as the series went on. However, a basic idea for her character was set in the moments we got. I'm afraid that Mashima would either turn away from her gentle side and turn her into just a prankster or turn from her playful side and only make her a sweet character.  

But it's not like I'd expect the majority of the fandom to catch on to that anyway. I don't see a lot of good fan characterizations of Lisanna. That's not just from the perspective of "I can't believe that you idiot Nalu shippers would write Lisanna as even close to how you do when she kicks Lucy off Team Natsu" I took well over a year ago. Like, I can count on one hand the number of writers I've seen give good, canon-based portrayals of Lisanna Strauss in fanfiction. Everyone else usually writes Lisanna as “Diet Mirajane, with a twist of Lucy” or just “Diet Lucy”. Then again, half of the writers who write Lisanna in a way I like ship Nali and agree with a lot of the stuff I've said about it over the years, so take that for what you will. 

And this goes back to the main question at hand: would the fandom actually want more Lisanna Strauss in canon? From what I can tell, most people don't even know that much about Lisanna in the first place. Of course, a good part of that is exactly why the argument for more of her happens at all. However, you're not getting a whole lot of it from the perspective of wanting more of her. You get it from the idea that she shouldn't have been brought back or existed in the first place.

The difference between the two is important. One is seeing how awesome a character could be or already is and wants to see those interesting things brought out more. The other is comes from wondering if something could somehow be made to be more useless than it already seems. One of these mentalities results in a character like Levy getting more screentime than originally intended. The other results in characters taking pot shots when the anime gets abridged.  

There goes me being pessimistic again... 

In Conclusion: 

Regardless of how you feel about Lisanna's handling in canon, it's interesting to think about how she could have gotten more of a chance to shine. Still, I'm doubtful if the fandom wants more or less of her.

Oh, by the way, I participated in r/anime’s 750k writing competition a while back. I wrote in defense of the idea that Fairy Tail is a series that has good ideas with bad execution. If you’re interested, especially if you aren’t following my rewrite series, check it out. Be warned that I was a bit “stuffier” writing that essay than I normally am here and I don’t think it’s some of my best writing (as some people commented). 

[thegreatwhiteferret]

I Won’t Hesitate No More, I’m Yours

Summary: Bill wants to keep his relationship with Richie a secret from the other Losers. Richie just wants to jump Bill's bones, but he settles for being a sweet boyfriend instead. 

A/N: For my Anon who requested Bichie being in a secret relationship, and Richie being a sweet doting boyfriend to show Bill he cares, and Richie smut. Lots of Richie smut. I am sorry that it is late, but I hope you love it! 

Obviously NSFW, so it’s under the cut. 💖💖💖

Richie was jumping out of his skin. He had officially had Bill all to himself for three weeks and he couldn’t tell anyone. Bill fucking Denbrough. The stud among mere mortals. Baseball star and all around average everyday superhero. He had also been Richie’s best friend since they were in Kindergarten, and Richie had had a crush on him for almost as long. They were now seniors in high school and Bill was all his.

Obviously Richie absolutely adores Bill, which makes restraining himself around the others an absolute fucking nightmare. He understands why Bill is apprehensive about telling them. Richie has known that he’s gay since he was in elementary school. He thought George Michael was pretty when all of the other boys were fawning over Madonna. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Bill was different. He was straight laced, had dated Beverly for a while and then had a few other sweet girlfriends, emphasis on the girl. Richie had been shocked when Bill had hauled him up in his arms and kissed him for the first time, so he can only imagine how the other Losers would react when they found out that not only was Bill not straight, but that he had a thing for none other than Richie Tozier.

He understands. He really does. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to hold Bill’s hand in the hallway. Or wrap his arms around him at random times, or kiss him in public. He really just wants any form of physical affection. He craves it.

Richie knows that he has to be patient. That Bill will come around to coming out. He can handle the waiting for physical affection in public, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t be a super sweet and caring boyfriend in other ways.

The Losers usually attend Bill and Stan’s baseball games as a group. They do the same with Mike’s football games in the fall. They are a family and support each other as much as possible. It’s not unusual to find Richie sitting on the metal bleachers while the Varsity Derry Baseball team is playing. It is however unusual that rather than making lewd jokes and chain smoking with Bev, Richie is one hundred percent focused on the game in front of him. He cheers unironically, even though he has to ask Mike about the proper terminology and to explain what some of the calls on the field mean, because that guy’s foot was totally on the base first, how can he be out? He cheers for Stan when he throws a good pitch, and complements Bill on his powerful throwdowns to second base. He also really loves seeing his boyfriend’s ass when he’s squating down in his catcher’s position. Richie damn near loses his mind when Bill hits a grand slam and cements Derry’s win over West Lake. Ben and Mike cheer along with him, but Bev and Eddie think that there is seriously something wrong going on.

“Rich, are you feeling alright?” Bev asks, pulling him aside while the other Losers walk down to the dugout to wait for Stan and Bill.

“Yeah, Bev. I’m fine. Just feeling in touch with my school spirit and the good old American pastime today.” Richie gives her a big goofy smile, and she playfully punches him in the arm. They rough house as they walk over to meet the others, laughing the whole way.

“W-what’s so f-funny?” Bill asks, a wide smile etched on his face, positively glowing from the victory.

“Nothing much, just telling this one that I think I have come around to liking baseball.” Richie winks at Bev who dramatically rolls her eyes. “Hey, congratulations though Big Bill, and Stan the Man of course. You were on fire out there.” He is thankful that he threw Stan in there instead of all of his focus being on Bill. He’s got to keep his cover.

“Y-you like b-baseball? As m-more than a t-time to goof o-off with B-bev?��� Bill raises his eyebrows in question, wondering what his boyfriend was up to. Richie slowly nods, sweet smile on his face. Bill is shook. “M-maybe we c-could go to the b-batting cages l-later? You c-could show m-me your s-swing.”

“That could be fun. I’d like to mess around with some balls.” He deadpans, and Bill almost chokes on his saliva.

“Okay, what the fuck is this? Invasion of the Body Snatchers?!?” Eddie squawks. He snaps his fingers in front of Richie’s face. “Richie? Richie, is that you in there? Blink twice if your brain is being held captive by some alien race.” It’s Richie’s turn to roll his eyes, and they head to Mike’s truck. Bill and Richie sit in the bed, and Bill lets him rest his head on his shoulder as they ride to the diner for shakes and burgers.

He counts it as a win, and later on Bill drags him back to the batting cages and they make out for a long time. Richie’s legs wrapped around Bill’s waist and back pressed into the metal fencing. Richie leaves with messy hair, kiss swollen lips, and a few seriously impressive hickies on his neck. Bill looks just as disheveled and that’s a win too.

At lunch the next day he makes sure to save the seat next to him for Bill. It irritates Eddie who usually sits there, but Richie claims it’s so Bill can proofread his essay for English while he checks over Bill’s Trigonometry homework. Eddie finally relents, and Bill smiles when he sees that the seat is open for him. They help each other with their work and bump their elbows together, loving the contact, even if it’s small. Bill splits his giant chocolate chip cookie with Richie too, which definitely means that this is love.

Richie is incredibly advanced and intelligent when it comes to both science and mathematics. He loves the concrete formulas that aren’t subjective. Bill does not love these subjects as much, he excels in the humanities  courses.  Richie checks over his homework and corrects it for him when he needs Bill’s help with an English assignment, but Bill thinks that he needs some actual tutorials. He mentions this when they are all working on homework in the library one day.

“I can help!” Richie volunteers immediately, drawing more eyebrow raises. He’s not known for volunteering to assist with other people’s problems very frequently. “What? I like math. It makes sense.” He says shaking his head.

“I would really appreciate that, Rich. I can help you with something for your Lit class in return if you’d like.” Bill offers.

“I think I’m squared away with that right now. Mrs. Jenson has finally given up on the Shakespeare crap and come to the more contemporary side. I’m sure we can figure something else out that I need help with, but I’m genuinely good with just tutoring you.” Richie is flipping through his physics notes so he doesn’t see the looks from the other Losers, Bill shrugs his shoulders in response to them, acting like he doesn’t know the motivation behind Richie’s offer. He just figures that Richie is being nice, they’re all a family he would do it for any one of them.

Richie ends up staying the night at the Denbrough house, because it is so late when he has finally managed to drill Soh Cah Toa into his boyfriend’s brain. Richie is flopped with his face in one of Bill’s pillows when the other boy comes back from getting ready for bed in the bathroom. He smells like minty toothpaste and face wash and clean laundry, and Richie flips over so he can look at Bill when he comes over to the bed.

“D-do you w-want to borrow a s-shirt and p-paj-pajama pants?” He asks already pulling a shirt out of his dresser.

“Just the shirt, Billy. I can sleep in my boxers if that’s okay. I don’t want to add to your laundry.” Bill nods, throwing the shirt to him and sliding into bed. Richie doesn’t bother going to the bathroom to change. He unbuckles his belt and jeans and slides them off of his legs. His boxers are black and red plaid like a lumberjack, and he loves them. He slides his flannel off and then his t-shirt. He can feel Bill’s eyes raking over his body from where he’s lying behind him. “Like what you see, Denbrough?” He asks, and turns to wink before sliding Bill’s way too big t-shirt over his head. Bill blushes.

“S-so. I think I k-know how I c-could make it u-up to you. It d-did take y-you a long t-time to help m-me.” Richie cocks an eyebrow at him, he was serious when he said that it wasn’t a problem at all.

“Bill. I don’t need you to make it up to me. I got to spend time working on my favorite subject with my favorite person. I’m good. It was no trouble.” Richie shrugs, but Bill looks pensive, like he’s trying to put words together.

“C-can...can I b-blow y-you?” Bill looks up at him through his eyelashes and Richie could have busted a nut right then and there.

“Whaaaat? Bill are you serious? We’ve never done that before, you’ve definitely never done that before period. You really don’t have to.” He rambles, but Bill is already pulling the covers off of Richie’s hips and working his boxers down. Richie is already getting hard, he strokes himself a few times to get his dick the rest of the way there, Bill watches the whole time. “I’m serious Bill, you really don’t have to.”

“I w-want to t-try.” Richie nods and props his head up as Bill leans forward. The first swipe of his tongue is tentative. Careful. He brings his hand up and begins jerking Richie off a bit, they’ve done this before a few times. They usually stick to making out, but Bill gets handsy when he’s had a bit to drink, and Richie just really likes making the taller boy cum..

Bill slides the head of Richie’s dick in his mouth, tonguing the underside a little, and then slides his mouth down Richie’s length. He can’t take him in all the way, but the wet heat of Bill’s mouth and the twisting pleasure of his hand jerking what he can’t take has Richie spiraling. He bites his fist so that he doesn’t moan out too loud, and let’s the pleasure take over his body. It might be Bill’s first time giving a blow job, but it is breathtakingly amazing. Richie can feel his orgasm building and he taps Bill on the shoulder.

“B-Bill. I’m gonna cum, you need to pull off.” He moans, but Bill stubbornly keeps him in his mouth. He can’t hold on any longer and then he’s cumming into the heat of Bill’s mouth. Bill sputters, choking on the abundance of jizz, and Richie feels awful. “Oh my God, Bill are you okay? I should have insisted that I pulled out.”

“I-it’s o-okay.” Bill coughs out, “It w-was just a-alot.” Richie blushes. And ducks his head down a bit. “W-was it okay f-for you?” Bill asks sheepishly.

“Fucking. Amazing. You’re a Goddamn natural, Denbrough.” He pecks Bill on the cheek. “Did you want me to return the favor?” Bill nods frantically, and Richie gets to work.

Pizza is one of Richie’s most favorite things in the entire world. Particularly pepperoni pizza. He could definitely eat a whole pie by himself. The Losers usually cut him off at four slices until everyone else is done eating. They’re all in Ben’s basement watching a movie on VHS, lounging around and eating pizza. Bill’s mom calls, and he has to run upstairs to make sure that it’s not anything important before he gets to have a single bite of pizza. Richie notices that there is only one piece of pepperoni left, he brings the box with him over to where he and Bill were sitting but doesn’t open the box. This time it’s Ben that questions him.

“Are you planning on eating that Richie, or are you just going to stare at it?” He asks, taking a bite out of a piece of cheese.

“Oh. No. It’s not for me. Bill’s favorite is pepperoni and there’s only one piece left. I figured that I would save it for him since he hasn’t gotten any.” Richie shrugged, distracted by the images on the screen.

“You’re saving a piece of you favorite food for Bill?” Mike asks slowly. It’s another very uncharacteristic thing for Richie to do.

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’. Bill comes back down a few minutes later looking flushed. He slides two pieces of plain cheese on his plate before sitting down next to Richie.

“W-what’s this?” He asks, motioning to the pizza box next to Richie. Richie snaps out of his daze to answer.

“There was only one piece of pepperoni pizza left and I know how much you love it so I saved it for you.” By the look on Bill’s face you would have thought that Richie had just handed him the most precious thing in the world.

“Y-you save m-me the last p-piece?” Richie nods in response, why is everyone making such a big deal out of this. “Y-you are s-something else, R-Rich.” Bill smirks, and Richie feels warm and fuzzy about it inside. They don’t talk about it for the rest of the night.

Something is going on with Richie, Bill knows that the others are picking up on it too, he’s being so sweet. Bill’s never seen this side to Richie. He’s being more helpful to everyone, he’s more pleasant to be around, it’s been a big change since they...well since they started dating in secret. Bill knows that it has something to do with it, but decides that he needs to ask Richie to be sure.

They’re over at Richie’s house, his parents aren’t home, they’re never home but this time it’s been longer since the last time they were. Richie didn’t want to be in the house alone so he asked Bill to come over, Bill happily agreed hoping to get to talk some things out with the other boy. They’re sitting on Richie’s bed listening to music when Bill can’t take it anymore.

“H-hey Rich?” His boyfriend looks up from his notebook and waits for Bill to continue. “W-why have y-you been b-being so….s-sweet?”

“What do you mean, Bill. I’m not being sweet. Why are you and the others acting so weird. I can be considerate.” Bill raises his eyebrow, a universal sign to cut the bullshit. “Fiiiiiiiiiiiine, I guess i just like doing things for you. I can’t exactly jump your bones in public, on account of you wanting to keep our relationship a secret, but I still want to show you that I care...that I…” He drifts off, eyes wide, catching what he was about to say.

“T-that you w-what?” Bill inquiries, he’s not going to let Richie get away with cutting that thought short.

“That I...that I…” He’s stumbling over his words. “Ugh. Fuck you, Debrough! That I love you! There I said it, are you happy? I love you.”

“I l-love you t-too, Richie.” A grand smiles comes across Bill’s face. “C-can I s-show you?”

Richie nods. He’s been dreaming of this moment for twelve years. Bill closes the distance between them and presses a sweet kiss to Richie’s lips. Richie really leans into it, he wants everything that Bill has to offer. Bill swipes his tongue across Richie’s lower lip, asking permission, and Richie happily grants it to him. They fall back on Richie’s bed, Bill slots himself between Richie’s legs and lifts them so that his pelvis is pressing right into the crease of Richie’s ass. Richie can feel how hard Bill is through his jeans already, and he moans into the kiss at the thought. Bill reaches down and palms the bulge in his boyfriend’s pants. Richie feels tingly all over.

“Less clothes now!” He mutters out and Bill leans back enough to begin unbuttoning Richie’s jeans. Richie wiggles his hips so that Bill can pull them down, and then he kicks them off. Richie is tenting in his boxers, and he would probably be more embarrassed about it, but Bill is licking his lips just looking at it. Bill hooks his fingers in the bands of the boxers and pulls them down. He scrunches Richie’s shirt up until Richie gets the hint and pulls it off. He’s completely naked on his bed, legs spread and lifted to his chest, presenting his leaking hard cock and tight pink hole while his boyfriend stares hungrily at him. “You too Billy, you can’t fuck me with your clothes on.” Richie’s mind is tingling, his filter gone, and Bill groans at the bluntness of his words. He stands up from the bed and pulls his shirt over his head. Richie really wants to run his hands up and down Bill’s abs. He then undoes his own jeans, pushing them and his boxer briefs down. Richie’s eyes get really wide, he’s seen Bill naked before, but never like this, never with the possibility of Bill actually fucking him lingering in the air. Bill looks like a fucking Adonis, He’s all lean muscle, and so tall. Richie thinks that Bill standing there naked looking at him, is just about the most beautiful and perfect thing that he’s ever seen.

“G-god Richie. Y-you look so g-good.” Bill says, moving back to the bed. He’s back between his legs, this time when he presses his groin into Richie’s ass, Richie can feel his dick pressing between his cheeks. “What d-do you w-want, Baby?” Bill is less experienced in this field. Richie is the first man that he’s ever been with, he’s enjoyed the learning curve so far, but he’s terrified that he will do something wrong and hurt Richie.

“Gah, Bill. Can we...can we 69?” It’s the only time in his life that he has ever been completely serious while talking about that number. “And then, Billy, I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel your huge cock for days.” Richie is whining. He wants everything all at once. Bill nods, he wants it too. He moves so that his hips and cock are hovering over Richie’s mouth and he’s positioned to take Richie’s dick in his own mouth. Bill makes the first move, he licks a stripe up the side of Richie’s cock, then swirls his tongue in the slit, collecting the beads of precum and moaning at the taste, then he’s taking Richie in, encasing his cock in wet heat. He pushes down until the head is hitting the back of his throat. Richie groans, and grabs handfuls of Bill’s ass. He uses this grip to lift himself up and slide Bill’s dick into his mouth. It takes a few tries for him to get warmed up enough for him to take his massive dick all the way in, but when he allows Bill to thrust down enough to slide into his throat slightly he’s rewarded with godly sounds. They pull each other apart with their mouths. Bill rolls Richie’s balls in his hand, and Richie thinks he will come immediately if they didn't stop. The student has obviously surpassed the master. “Baby, if we don’t stop, I’m going to cum and I won’t get your dick in my ass.”  Bill pulls off with a slurp and moves off of Richie.

“D-do you h-have stuff?” Bill asks, face flushed from the previous activity, the flush is spreading down his chest and Richie can see that his cock is red too, painfully hard and ready to fuck until release. Richie nods and pulls a small tube of lube out of his drawer, he stops and looks at Bill.

“Do you want to use a condom?” He bites his lip, he’s nervous. There’s just so much that they haven’t discussed, but he’s been waiting for so long for this, he doesn’t want to wait to have sex until they’ve had those conversations.

“I...I uh. I d-don’t know. D-do you?” Bill’s priority is Richie’s comfort, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“I want to feel you. All of you. I trust you, Bill. I love you.” Bill nods in agreement.

“I l-love you t-too, Rich. I w-want to make y-you feel so g-good.” Bill pulls Richie in for another kiss. Richie hands Bill the tube of lube and then flips over so that he’s on his knees and elbows, sticking his ass in the air.

“You’ve got to stretch me out good, Big Bill. That cock of yours is massive, I can’t take it without prep.” Richie glances over his shoulder, and sees Bill gripping the base of his dick with his eyes shut tightly. Richie giggles, and Bill is not amused.

Bill lubes up his fingers, and kneels on the bed with Richie’s ass right in front of him. He runs his fingers down Richie’s back to the top crease of his ass, he watches in aw as Richie’s tiny hole flutters at the sensation. Bill doesn’t know what comes over him, but he leans forward and licks a stripe right across Richie’s hole.

“Holy fuck, ahhhh, Bill, yes.” Richie cries out in pleasure and Bill does it again, letting the tip of his tongue enter the hole in a teasing way. Richie moans out again and Bill pulls back and circles the hole with his index finger, rubbing Richie’s ass cheek with his hand soothingly as he pushes in to his first knuckle. “Gahhh. Mmmm.” Richie thrusts back, taking the rest of Bill’s finger in. Bill laughs at Richie’s eagerness. “I swear to God Bill if you don’t start moving your fingers…” Bill starts thrusting his finger in and out, shutting Richie up. If only he had known years ago that it could be so easy. When Richie is getting really into it he adds another finger. Spreading them apart and loving the sounds he’s pulling out of his boyfriend. He rubs his finger tips on Richie’s walls until he finds the spot that has his back arching and curses tumbling out of his mouth. “Yes, Bill, yes, Jesus fuck. Fuck me. I’m ready. Stick that fat cock on meeeeeeeee.” He half whines, half moans.

Bill pours a generous amount of lube on his cock and spreads it around, groaning at the feeling of his own hand touching his sensitive dick. He flips Richie so he’s on his back.

“I w-want to s-see you.” He says bashfully, but Richie is giving him the biggest smile. He helps Richie hook his legs over his shoulders,leaving his hole wide open for Bill and presses the blunt head of his cock against it. Richie moans at the pressure, and then Bill is slowly inching in. He has to screw his eyes shut, the tight heat better than anything he had ever felt in his life. “H-holy shit, R-richie. You f-feel so g-ggod, you’re s-so t-tight.”

“Mmmmm, you fill me up so good, Big Bill.” Bill growls at the nickname and slowly pulls his dick out of Richie and then slams his hips forward. Richie’s eyes damn near roll back in his head. Bill starts gaining more confidence and momentum, rolling his hips into Richie’s ass repeatedly. “Fuck yes, ugh, yes, fuck ugh. Harder, Bill. Oh my God.”

Bill is getting close, Richie is absolutely mesmerizing. He reaches a hand in between them and gets Richie’s cock in his hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. It takes less than ten tugs for Richie to tumble over the edge with a shout of Bill’s name, tingles taking over his whole body. As soon as Richie clenches around Bill’s dick his cumming too, pumping his load deep inside Richie, only stilling his hips when he’s completely spent. He pulls out carefully,  still worried about hurting Richie. The other boy immediately makes grabby arms and Bill folds himself into them.

“W-was that o-okay?” Bill asks, feeling incredibly self conscious. He hopes that he was good enough for Richie.

“Okay? Bill, that was fucking amazing. You are fucking amazing. Like a sex God I swear, and you don’t even try!” Richie squawks.

“Y-you’re fucking a-amazing.” Bill says from where his face is tucked into the crook of Richie’s neck. “Y-you’re the s-sex God.” Richie laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound, one of Bill’s favorites.

“You’re only saying that because I just let you totally wreck my ass. I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.” Bill frowns, and Richie immediately calls him on it. “Oh hush. I wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything. I love you William Denbrough.”

“I l-love you t-too, Richard T-Tozier.” Bill smiles at him and kisses him again. He wants this forever, wishes that he had admitted his feeling to himself much sooner. There’s only one thing left to do. “H-hey Richie...w-what do y-you think about t-telling the o-others?”

“Really?” Richie’s eyes are wide, searching for some hint on Bill’s face that he’s joking or still has reservations, but Bill just nods. Richie attacks him with more kisses. They don’t have to keep it a secret anymore. Bill pulls away, and looks Richie right in the eye.

“I’m y-yours. I w-want the w-whole world t-to know.”

[hcpefulmarshmallow]

Misconception: he seems to dislike "normal people" (without talents), but I think deep inside he wants to be normal too.....

Sore Wa Chigau Yo!

Strap in, kids, because this one’s kind of a doozy. I’m about to tell you two entirely opposing accounts of what goes on inside Nagito’s head, and rest assured, they’re both mutually exclusive, and one as valid as the other. 

 Let’s start with the side of him that absolutely, definitely puts Ultimate Talent above all else, just because it’s the side we see more. I’m going to be quite short about this because I think about every other user, as well as the game itself, has covered this more concisely than my drivel machine of a brain.

 Obviously, Nagito absolutely values hope above all else. (What is hope in his eyes? We’ll come back to that later.)

 He would die to bring about a little more hope in the world. 

 He would also let others make the choice to die for hope. 

 In almost every scenario, he would put the wants of an Ultimate above the needs of someone who is talentless, as he sees Ultimates as being in a class of their own, far above everyone else. He has a deep, devoted, platonic love for such people. 

 He wants to see “hope and despair collide”; and for a stronger, more shining hope to come out on top. 

 He believes that strong hope will overcome weak hope and despair.

 He believes that anyone who is talentless should be honoured to do anything for an Ultimate, as that’s assisting hope by proxy, in a sense. 

 He’s no hypocrite, and upholds these tough standards for himself. 

 Nagito considers his luck to be the only special thing about him; and even that, he doesn’t consider a talent. 

 At absolutely no point to I want to minimise the importance of this particular part of his characterisation, so please keep all this in mind as I bring up some lesser-acknowledged stuff. 

 We start with his character music. As much as Nagito claims talent is all that matters, Megumi Ogata, his Japanese VA, is out here spilling all his tea and I love it. She refers to the song Zettai Kibou Birthday as how he feels on the “outside”, and Zanzakura -Zanka- as how he feels on the “inside”. 

 ZKB is about meeting a mysterious someone on campus who he was “born to meet”, and the situation gets quite sexual from there. However, the entire song is metaphoric (remember how I referred to him as a great, big virgin?) It nods to his deep love of hope, and desire to be close to another person, seeing the two as one and the same - it doesn’t necessarily mean he has a literal hope fetish. You have to look pretty close, however, to see anything besides that. 

 Zanka is a much sadder and simpler song. He compares himself to cherry blossoms, which are, in Japan, symbolic of mortality and the ephemeral nature of life. The flowers themselves only bloom for about a week, sometimes less depending on the conditions around them; but cherry blossoms are seen as being at their most beautiful, not in full bloom, but as they begin to wither and die. He also sings the line, 

“ To live an ordinary life, and die together with you / Oh, if that could come true ”

 Call me crazy, but that doesn’t sound like someone who is desperate to die, even for hope, at any given minute.

 There’s also the matter of the OVA to consider. This disaster of canon may be more intentional than we first considered. In case you missed it, here’s the full episode. Otherwise, I could harp all day on various things people have acknowledged before, so I’ll narrow it down to two key points:

 1 - This doesn’t have much to do with the question at hand, but it’s good to note. In a world where he’s supposed to be “untalented”, Nagito retains a somewhat warped version of his luck, where he experiences bad luck so that others can experience good. My takeaway from this is that this points back to him feeling like his luck is the only thing that makes him special; but also that he still carries a lot of guilt for the hardships his luck has caused others, and if he had a say in the matter, he’d be the only one getting hurt, and would find a way to harness it to help others. I could do a whole other thousand word essay on this, to be honest. 

 2 - Due to the traumatic nature of his death in the Neo World Program, Nagito’s mind creates a world where he can feel safe and comfortable. You’d think that, for someone who supposedly was willing to kill to become Ultimate Hope, he might make a world where that dream can come true. But what does this incredibly intelligent, creative young man do with a whole world at his fingertips? He goes to high school. 

 He. Goes. To. High. School.

 And it’s not even some super special high school on the moon or whatever. All the faces we see are familiar to him. He gets to be with the people he’s already come to know, except this time around, they like him. These people he felt he could only look up to before have become his friends. He even expresses a desire to live in a world without talent, presenting it as some kind of barrier between people; as something that, without, no one would be better than the other, and there’d be fewer roadblocks to happiness. 

 After that world is destroyed, Nagito expresses a little bit of worry that perhaps somebody saw it, and when put at ease, says something to the effect of, “That’s just not who I am.” If that’s the case, however, then why did that world exist in the first place; of all the things his mind could have made? Granted, not everything in it is necessarily literal. He implies in-game that part of the reason he was drawn to Hajime was because he feels as if they’re alike. It’s later revealed that Hajime didn’t have a talent originally. To Nagito, he had found someone he could be on the same level with; someone with actual potential to understand him. That seems like perhaps one of the most likely meanings behind the world his mind created. 

 Now, look, if you’ve been on this blog for more than two minutes, you know exactly where this is going next. Nagito’s finally confided in someone that he’s dying, and what does he say to Hajime about it? Insert screenshot I bring up at every given opportunity because it breaks my heart and I like to suffer, I guess.

 There’s nothing in this world to bring out a person’s priorities like the Grim Reaper himself. When you don’t have much time left, you want to spend it on what truly matters. While Nagito has made it very clear that he wants his actual death to be meaningful and contribute to a greater good; he also makes it clear in his own, roundabout way just what he wanted to fill the space between now and then with.

 You’ve probably noticed a bit of a disconnect happening here. The docile doormat who would suck hope’s dick for a kick in the face, the Laugh™ with dreams of becoming Ultimate Hope, and the smol cinnamon roll who’d live in a library if he could and would sell his soul for a hug. What is truth? What is acting? What is fanservice? Is Mun reading way too into things? How can so many different things exist inside one character?

 Answers: all of it; none of it; some of it tbh; probably; the same way anyone else is capable of feeling extremes. Nagito is a very cleverly put-together, very complex character. It isn’t right or fair to say that one side of him matters more than the other. It seems as if there’s nothing to tie together his many personas, and I’ve spent a long time thinking about how a someone could want both life and death, and I don’t think my answer will shock you. 

 Hope. 

 Before you roll your eyes at me, just listen. Ask about anyone what hope means, and they’ll probably say, “a positive outlook for the future” or “a feeling of excitement and expectation” or they’ll start crying and that’s how you spot a DR fan. Nagito, however, has a very specific yet very vague definition of the word, and that’s the key to how I play his character. 

“ Hope is a positive force… Everything created by it is an absolute good! ”

 I couldn’t find my screenshot of this bit oops. An absolute good. In my mind, the only way to make sense of everything he says, is to break down a few barriers here. Hope is good, but you know what else is good? Love. Honesty. Companionship. Joy. Laughter. As soon as I started looking at them as different forms of hope, I started to really find my way with this character. Remember how I mentioned that, in Zettai Kibou Birthday, he feels absolute hope from getting intimate with the certain “someone”?

 Does he want to see hope and despair collide in a magnificent show of fireworks? Yes. Does he also want the pedestrian pleasure of just holding someone’s hand and watching fireworks? Also yes. He wants the splendid and the simple; and while certain circumstances may bring out one side over the other, who honestly couldn’t say the same? That they’d react extremely to an extreme series of events, and calmly to a calm one?

 Remember, Nagito is deeply traumatised, was raised without proper guidance or parenting, suffers from more than one illness that messes up the body and mind, is facing down the end of his life, and has no family, friends or support system. Yes, he dislikes talentless people. Yes, he kind of wants to be one. Yes, he’d rather die than be one. Nothing he feels is going to be straightforward. He has a painful past, a messy present and a future he’ll never have all going on in that mind of his. Of course he wants it all. 

TL;DR: It’s not enough to say absolutely one way or the other. Nagito is a very complex character with opposing views and strong core values he clings to in order to make sense of a senseless world.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Green Tea

Sheridan Le Fanu (1872)

PROLOGUE

Martin Hesselius, the German Physician

Through carefully educated in medicine and surgery, I have never practiced either. The study of each continues, nevertheless, to interest me profoundly. Neither idleness nor caprice caused my secession from the honorable calling which I had just entered. The cause was a very trifling scratch inflicted by a dissecting knife. This trifle cost me the loss of two fingers, amputated promptly, and the more painful loss of my health, for 1 have never been quite well since, and have seldom been twelve months together in the same place.

In my wanderings I became acquainted with Dr. Martin Hesselius, a wanderer like myself, like me a physician, and like me an enthusiast in his profession. Unlike me in this, that his wanderings were voluntary, and he a man, if not of fortune, as we estimate fortune in England, at least in what our forefathers used to term "easy circumstances." He was an old man when 1 first saw him; nearly five-and-thirty years my senior. In Dr. Martin Hesselius, 1 found my master. His knowledge was immense, his grasp of a case was an vintuition. He was the very man to inspire a young enthusiast, like me, with awe and delight. My admiration has stood the test of time and survived the separation of death. I am sure it was well-founded. For nearly twenty years I acted as his medical secretary. His immense collection of papers he has left in my care, to be arranged, indexed and bound. His treatment of some of these cases is curious. He writes in two distinct characters. He describes what he saw and heard as an intelligent layman might, and when in this style of narrative he had seen the patient either through his own hall-door, to the light of day, or through the gates of darkness to the caverns of the dead, he returns upon the narrative, and in the terms of his art and with all the force and originality of genius, proceeds to the work of analysis, diagnosis and illustration. Here and there a case strikes me as of a kind to amuse or horrify a lay reader with an interest quite different from the peculiar one which it may possess for an expert. With slight modifications, chiefly of language, and of course a change of names, I copy the following.

The narrator is Dr. Martin Hesselius. I find it among the voluminous notes of cases which he made during a tour in England about sixty-four years ago. It is related in series of letters to his friend Professor Van Loo of Leyden. The professor was not a physician, but a chemist, and a man who read history and metaphysics and medicine, and had, in his day, written a play. The narrative is therefore, if somewhat less valuable as a medical record, necessarily written in a manner more likely to interest an unlearned reader. These letters, from a memorandum attached, appear to have been returned on the death of the professor, in 1819, to Dr. Hesselius. They are written, some in English, some in French, but the greater part in German. I am a faithful, though I am conscious, by no means a graceful translator, and although here and there ! omit some passages, and shorten others, and disguise names, I have interpolated nothing.

CHAPTER I

Dr. Hesselius Relates How He Met the Rev. Mr. Jennings

The Rev. Mr. Jennings is tall and thin. He is middle-aged, and dresses with a natty, old-fashioned, high-church precision. He is naturally a little stately, but not at all stiff. His features, without being handsome, are well formed, and their expression extremely kind, but also shy. I met him one evening at Lady Mary Haddock's. The modesty and benevolence of his countenance are extremely prepossessing. We were but a small party, and he joined agreeably enough in the conversation, He seems to enjoy listening very much more than contributing to the talk; but what he says is always to the purpose and well said. He is a great favourite of Lady Mary's, who it seems, consults him upon many things, and thinks him the most happy and blessed person on earth. Little knows she about him. The Rev. Mr. Jennings is a bachelor, and has, they say sixty thousand pounds in the funds. He is a charitable man. He is most anxious to be actively employed in his sacred profession, and yet though always tolerably well elsewhere, when he goes down to his vicarage in Warwickshire, to engage in the actual duties of his sacred calling, his health soon fails him, and in a very strange way. So says Lady Mary.

There is no doubt that Mr. Jennings' health does break down in, generally, a sudden and mysterious way, sometimes in the very act of officiating in his old and pretty church at Kenlis. It may be his heart, it may be his brain. But so it has happened three or four times, or oftener, that after proceeding a certain way in the service, he has on a sudden stopped short, and after a silence, apparently quite unable to resume, he has fallen into solitary, inaudible prayer, his hands and his eyes uplifted, and then pale as death, and in the agitation of a strange shame and horror, descended trembling, and got into the vestry-room, leaving his congregation, without explanation, to themselves. This occurred when his curate was absent. When he goes down to Kenlis now, he always takes care to provide a clergyman to share his duty, and to supply his place on the instant should he become thus suddenly incapacitated.

When Mr. Jennings breaks down quite, and beats a retreat from the vicarage, and returns to London, where, in a dark street off Piccadilly, he inhabits a very narrow house, Lady Mary says that he is always perfectly well. I have my own opinion about that. There are degrees of course.

We shall see.

Mr. Jennings is a perfectly gentlemanlike man. People, however, remark something odd. There is an impression a little ambiguous. One thing which certainly contributes to it, people ! think don't remember; or, perhaps, distinctly remark. But I did, almost im mediately. Mr. Jennings has a way of looking sidelong upon the carpet, as if his eye followed the movements of something there. This, of course, is not always. It occurs now and then. But often enough to give a certain oddity, as I have said, to his manner, and in this glance traveling along the floor there is something both shy and anxious. A medical philosopher, as you are good enough to call me, elaborating theories by the aid of cases sought out by himself, and by him watched and scrutinized with more time at command, and consequently infinitely more minuteness than the ordinary practitioner can afford, falls insensibly into habits of observation, which accompany him everywhere, and are exercised, as some people would say, impertinently, upon every subject that presents itself with the least likelihood of rewarding inquiry. There was a promise of this kind in the slight, timid, kindly, but reserved gentleman, whom I met for the first time at this agreeable little evening gathering. I observed, of course, more than I here set down; but I reserve all that borden on the technical for a strictly scientific paper. I may remark, that when I here speak of medical science, I do so, as I hope some day to see it more generally understood, in a much more comprehensive sense than its generally material treatment would warrant. I believe the entire natural world is but the ultimate expression of that spiritual world from which, and in which alone, it has its life. I believe that the essential man is a spirit, that the spirit is an organized substance, but as different in point of material from what we ordinarily understand by matter, as light or electricity is; that the material body is, in the most literal sense, a vesture, and death consequently no interruption of the living man's existence, but simply his extrication from the natural body --a process which commences at the moment of what we term death, and the completion of which, at furthest a few days later, is the resurrection "in power." The person who weighs the consequences of these positions will probably see their practical bearing upon medical science. This is, however, by no means the proper place for displaying the proofs and discussing the consequences of this too generally unrecognized state of facts. In pursuance of my habit, I was covertly observing Mr. Jennings, with all my caution--l think he perceived it--and I saw plainly that he was as cautiously observing me. Lady Mary happening to address me by my name, as Dr. Hesselius, I saw that he glanced at me more sharply, and then became thoughtful for a few minutes.

After this, as I conversed with a gentleman at the other end of the room, I saw him look at me more steadily, and with an interest which I thought I understood. I then saw him take an opportunity of chatting with Lady Mary, and was, as one always is, perfectly aware of being the subject of a distant inquiry and answer.

This tall clergyman approached me by-and-by; and in a little time we had got into conversation.

When two people, who like reading, and know books and places, having traveled, wish to discourse, it is very strange if they can't find topics. It was not accident that brought him near me, and led him into conversation. He knew German and had read my Essays on Metaphysical Medicine which suggest more than they actually say. This courteous man, gentle, shy, plainly a man of thought and reading, who moving and talking among us, was not altogether of us, and whom I already suspected of leading a life whose trans actions and alarms were carefully concealed, with an impenetrable reserve from, not only the world, but his best beloved friends- was cautiously weighing in his own mind the idea of taking a certain step with regard to me. I penetrated his thoughts without his being aware of it, and was careful to say nothing which could betray to his sensitive vigilance my suspicions respecting his position, or my surmises about his plans respecting myself.

We chatted upon indifferent subjects for a time but at last he said:

"I was very much interested by some papers of yours, Dr. Hesselius, upon what you term Metaphysical Medicine--I read them in German, ten or twelve years ago--have they been translated?"

"No, I'm sure they have not--I should have heard. They would have asked my leave, I think."

"I asked the publishers here, a few months ago, to get the book for me in the original German; but they tell me it is out of print."

"So it is, and has been for some years; but it flatters me as an author to find that you have not forgotten my little book, although," I added, laughing, "ten or twelve years is a considerable time to have managed without it; but I suppose you have been turning the subject over again in your mind, or something has happened lately to revive your interest in it."

At this remark, accompanied by a glance of inquiry, a sudden embarrassment disturbed Mr. Jennings, analogous to that which makes a young lady blush and look foolish. He dropped his eyes, and folded his hands together uneasily, and looked oddly, and you would have said, guiltily, for a moment.

I helped him out of his awkwardness in the best way, by appearing not to observe it, and going straight on, I said: "Those revivals of interest in a subject happen to me often; one book suggests an other, and often sends me back a wild-goose chase over an interval of twenty years. But if you still care to possess a copy, I shall be only too happy to provide you; I have still got two or three by me --and if you allow me to present one I shall be very much honored."

"You are very good indeed," he said, quite at his ease again, in a moment: "I almost despaired--I don't know how to thank you.

"Pray don't say a word; the thing is really so little worth that I am only ashamed of having offered it, and if you thank me any more I shall throw it into the fire in a fit of modesty."

Mr. Jennings laughed. He inquired where I was staying in London, and after a little more conversation on a variety of subjects, he took his departure. CHAPTER II The Doctor Questions Lady Mary and She Answers

"I like your vicar so much, Lady Mary," said I, as soon as he was gone. "He has read, traveled, and thought, and having also suffered, he ought to be an accomplished companion."

"So he is, and, better still,' he is a really good man," said she. "His advice is invaluable about my schools, and all my little undertakings at Dawlbridge, and he's so painstaking, he takes so much trouble--you have no idea wherever he thinks he can be o~ use: he's so good-natured and so sensible."

"It is pleasant to hear so good an account of his neighbourly virtues. I can only testify to his being an agreeable and gentle companion, and in addition to what you have told me, I think 1 can tell you two or three things about him," said I. "Really!" "Yes, to begin with, he's unmarried." "Yes, that's right---go on."

"He has been writing, that is he was, but for two or three years perhaps, he has not gone on with his work, and the book was upon some rather abstract subject--perhaps theology."

"Well, he was writing a book, as you say; I'm not quite sure what it was about, but only that it was nothing that I cared for; very likely you are right, and he certainly did stop--yes."

"And although he only drank a little coffee here to-night, he likes tea, at least, did like it extravagantly."

"Yes, that's quite true."

"He drank green tea, a good deal, didn't he?" I pursued.

"Well, that's very odd! Green tea was a subject on which we used almost to quarrel."

"But he has quite given that up," said I. "So he has."

"And, now, one more fact. His mother or his father, did you know them?"

"Yes, both; his father is only ten years dead, and their place is near Dawlbridge. We knew them very well," she answered.

"Well, either his mother or his father--l should rather think his father, saw a ghost," said I.

"Well, you really are a conjurer, Dr. Hesselius." "Conjurer or no, haven't I said right?" I answered merrily.

"You certainly have, and it was his father: he was a silent, whimsical man, and he used to bore my father about his dreams, and at last he told him a story about a ghost he had seen and talked with, and a very odd story it was. I remember it particularly, because 1 was so afraid of him. This story was long before he died--when I was quite a child--and his ways were so silent and moping, and he used to drop in sometimes, in the dusk, when I was alone in the drawing-room, and I used to fancy there were ghosts about him." I smiled and nodded. "And now, having established my character as a conjurer, I think I must say good-night!' said I. "But how did you find it out?"

"By the planets, of course, as the gypsies do," I answered, and so, gaily we said good-night.

Next morning I sent the little book he had been inquiring after, and a note to Mr. Jennings, and on returning late that evening, I found that he had called at my lodgings, and left his card. He asked whether I was at home, and asked at what hour he would be most likely to find me. Does he intend opening his case, and consulting me "professionally," as they say? I hope so. I have already conceived a theory about him. It is supported by Lady Mary's answers to my parting questions. I should like much to ascertain from his own lips. But what can I do consistently with good breeding to invite a confession? Nothing. I rather think he meditates one. At all events, my dear Van L., I shan't make myself difficult of access; I mean to re turn his visit tomorrow. It will be only civil in return for his polite ness, to ask to see him. Perhaps something may come of it.

Whether much, little, or nothing, my dear Van L., you shall hear.

CHAPTER III

Dr. Hesselius Picks Up Something in Latin Books

Well, I have called at Blank Street.

On inquiring at the door, the servant told me that Mr. Jennings was engaged very particularly with a gentleman, a clergyman from Kenlis, his parish in the country. Intending to reserve my privilege, and to call again, I merely intimated that I should try an- other time, and had turned to go, when the servant begged my pardon, and asked me, looking at me a little more attentively than well-bred persons of his order usually do, whether I was Dr. Hesselius; and, on learning that I was, he said, "Perhaps then, sir, you would allow me to mention it to Mr. Jennings, for I am sure he wishes to see you." The servant returned in a moment, with a message from Mr. Jennings, asking me to go into his study, which was in effect his back drawing-room, promising to be with me in a very few minutes. This was really a study--almost a library. The room was lofty, with two tall slender windows, and rich dark curtains. It was much larger than I had expected, and stored with books on every side, from the floor to the ceiling. The upper carpet-- for to my tread it felt that there were two or three--was a Turkey carpet. My steps fell noiselessly. The bookcases standing out, placed the windows, particularly narrow ones, in deep recesses. The effect of the room was, although extremely comfortable, and even luxurious, decidedly gloomy, and aided by the silence, almost oppressive. Perhaps, however, I ought to have allowed something for association. My mind had connected peculiar ideas with Mr. Jennings. I stepped into this perfectly silent room, of a very silent house, with a peculiar foreboding; and its darkness, and solemn clothing of books, for except where two narrow looking-glasses were set in the wall, they were everywhere, helped this somber feeling.

While awaiting Mr. Jennings' arrival, I amused myself by looking into some of the books with which his shelves were laden. Not among these, but immediately under them, with their backs up ward, on the floor, I lighted upon a complete set of Swedenborg's "Arcana Celestia," in the original Latin, a very fine folio set, bound in the natty livery which theology affects, pure vellum, namely, gold letters, and carmine edges. There were paper markers in several of these volumes, I raised and placed them, one after the other, upon the table, and opening where these papers were placed, I read in the solemn Latin phraseology, a series of sentences indicated by a penciled line at the margin. Of these I copy here a few, translating them into English.

"When man's interior sight is opened, which is that of his spirit, then there appear the things of another life, which cannot possibly be made visible to the bodily sight."....

"By the internal sight it has been granted me to see the things that are in the other life, more clearly than I see those that are in the world. From these considerations, it is evident that external vision exists from interior vision, and this from a vision still more interior, and so on." .... "There are with every man at least two evil spirits.".... "With wicked genii there is also a fluent speech, but harsh and grating. There is also among them a speech which is not fluent, wherein the dissent of the thoughts is perceived as something secretly creeping along within it." "The evil spirits associated with man are, indeed from the hells, but when with man they are not then in hell, but are taken out thence. The place where they then are, is in the midst between heaven and hell, and is called the world of spirits--when the evil spirits who are with man, are in that world, they are not in any infernal torment, but in every thought and affection of man, and so, in all that the man himself enjoys. But when they are remitted into their hell, they return to their former state.".... "If evil spirits could perceive that they were associated with man, and yet that they were spirits separate from him, and if they could flow in into the things of his body, they would attempt by a thousand means to destroy him; for they hate man with a deadly hatred." .... "Knowing, therefore, that I was a man in the body, they were continually striving to destroy me, not as to the body only, but especially as to the soul; for to destroy any man or spirit is the very delight of the life of all who are in hell; but I have been continually protected by the Lord. Hence it appears how dangerous it is for man to be in a living consort with spirits, unless he be in the good of faith." .... "Nothing is more carefully guarded from the knowledge of associate spirits than their being thus conjoint with a man, for if they knew it they would speak to him, with the intention to destroy him." .... "The delight of hell is to do evil to man, and to hasten his eternal ruin."

A long note, written with a very sharp and fine pencil, in Mr. Jennings' neat hand, at the foot of the page, caught my eye. Expecting his criticism upon the text, I read a word or two, and stopped, for it was something quite different, and began with these words, Deus misereatur mei--"May God compassionate me." Thus warned of its private nature, I averted my eyes, and shut the book, replacing all the volumes as I had found them, except one which interested me, and in which, as men studious and solitary in their habits will do, I grew so absorbed as to take no cognisance of the outer world, nor to remember where I was. I was reading some pages which refer to "representatives" and "correspondents," in the technical language of Swedenborg, and had arrived at a passage, the substance of which is, that evil spirits, when seen by other eyes than those of their infernal associates, pre sent themselves, by "correspondence," in the shape of the beast ()fera) which represents their particular lust and life, in aspect direful and atrocious. This is a long passage, and particularises a number of those bestial forms.

CHAPTER IV

Four Eyes Were Reading the Passage

I was running the head of my pencil-case along the line as I read it, and something caused me to raise my eyes.

Directly before me was one of the mirrors I have mentioned, in which I saw reflected the tall shape of my friend, Mr. Jennings, leaning over my shoulder, and reading the page at which I was busy, and with a face so dark and wild that I should hardly have known him.

I turned and rose. He stood erect also, and with an effort laughed a little, saying: "I came in and asked you how you did, but without succeeding in awaking you from your book; so I could not restrain my curiosity, and very impertinently, I'm afraid, peeped over your shoulder. This is not your first time of looking into those pages. You have looked into Swedenborg, no doubt, long ago?"

"Oh dear, yes! I owe Swedenborg a great deal; you will discover traces of him in the little book on Metaphysical Medicine, which you were so good as to remember." Although my friend affected a gaiety of manner, there was a slight flush in his face, and I could perceive that he was inwardly much perturbed. "I'm scarcely yet qualified, I know so little of Swedenborg. I've only had them a fortnight," he answered, "and I think they are rather likely to make a solitary man nervous--that is, judging from the very little I have read---I don't say that they have made me so," he laughed; "and I'm so very much obliged for the book. I hope you got my note?"

I made all proper acknowledgments and modest disclaimers. "I never read a book that I go with, so entirely, as that of yours," he continued. "I saw at once there is more in it than is quite un folded. Do you know Dr. Harley?" he asked, rather abruptly. In passing, the editor remarks that the physician here named was one of the most eminent who had ever practiced in England.

I did, having had letters to him, and had experienced from him great courtesy and considerable assistance during my visit to England.

"I think that man one of the very greatest fools I ever met in my life," said Mr. Jennings.

This was the first time I had ever heard him say a sharp thing of anybody, and such a term applied to so high a name a little startled me.

"Really! and in what way?" I asked. "In his profession," he answered. I smiled.

"I mean this," he said: "he seems to me, one half, blind--I mean one half[ of all he looks at is dark--preternaturally bright and vivid all the rest; and the worst of it is, it seems wilful. I can't get him--I mean he won't--I've had some experience of him as a physician, but I look on him as, in that sense, no better than a paralytic mind, an intellect half dead. I'll tell you--I know I shall some time--all about it," he said, with a little agitation. "You stay some months longer in England. If I should be out of town during your stay [or a little time, would you allow me to trouble you with a letter?"

"I should be only too happy," I assured him.

"Very good of you. I am so utterly dissatisfied with Harley."

"A little leaning to the materialistic school," I said.

"A mere materialist," he corrected me; "you can't think how that sort of thing worries one who knows better. You won't tell any one--any of my friends you know--that I am hippish; now, [or instance, no one knows--not even Lady Mary--that I have seen Dr. Harley, or any other doctor.

So pray don't mention it; and, if I should have any threatening of an attack, you'll kindly let me write, or, should I be in town, have a little talk with you." I was full of conjecture, and unconsciously I found I had fixed my eyes gravely on him, for he lowered his for a moment, and he said: "1 see you think I might as well tell you now, or else you are forming a conjecture; but you may as well give it up. If you were guessing all the rest of your Iife, you will never hit on it."

He shook his head smiling, and over that wintry sunshine a black cloud suddenly came down, and he drew his breath in, through his teeth as men do in pain. "Sorry, of course, to learn that you apprehend occasion to consult any of us; but, command me when and how you like, and I need not assure you that your confidence is sacred."

He then talked of quite other things, and in a comparatively cheerful way and after a little time, I took my leave.

CHAPTER V

Dr. Hesselius is Summoned to Richmond

We parted cheerfully, but he was not cheerful, nor was I. There are certain expressions of that powerful organ of spirit--the human face--which, although I have seen them often, and possess a doctor's nerve, yet disturb me profoundly. One look of Mr. Jennings haunted me. It had seized my imagination with so dismal a power that I changed my plans for the evening, and went to the opera, feeling that I wanted a change of ideas.

I heard nothing of or from him for two or three days, when a note in his hand reached me. It was cheerful, and full of hope. He said that he had been for some little time so much better-quite well, in fact--that he was going to make a little experiment, and run down for a month or so to his parish, to try whether a little work might not quite set him up. There was in it a fervent religious expression of gratitude [or his restoration, as he now almost hoped he might call it.

A day or two later I saw Lady Mary, who repeated what his note had announced, and told me that he was actually in Warwickshire, having resumed his clerical duties at Kenlis; and she added, "I begin to think that he is really perfectly well, and that there never was anything the matter, more than nerves and fancy; we are all nervous, but I fancy there is nothing like a little hard work for that kind of weakness, and he has made up his mind to try it. I should not be surprised if he did not come back for a year." Notwithstanding all this confidence, only two days later 1 had this note, dated from his house off Piccadilly:

DEAR Sir,--I have returned disappointed. If I should feel at all able to see you, I shall write to ask you kindly to call. At present, I am too low, and, in fact, simply unable to say all I wish to say. Pray don't mention my name to my friends. I can see no one. By-and-by, please God, you shall hear from me. I mean to take a run into Shropshire, where some of my people are. God bless you! May we, on my return, meet more happily than I can now write.

About a week after this I saw Lady Mary at her own house, the last person, she said, left in town, and just on the wing for Brighton, for the London season was quite over. She told me that she had heard from Mr. Jenning's niece, Martha, in Shropshire. There was nothing to be gathered from her letter, more than that he was low and nervous. In those words, of which healthy people think so lightly, what a world of suffering is sometimes hidden! Nearly five weeks had passed without any further news of Mr. Jennings. At the end of that time I received a note from him. He wrote: "I have been in the country, and have had change of air, change of scene, change of faces, change of everything--and in everything ---but myself. I have made up my mind, so far as the most irresolute creature on earth can do it, to tell my case fully to you. If your engagements will permit, pray come to me to-day, to-morrow, or the next day; but, pray defer as little as possible. You know not how much I need help. I have a quiet house at Richmond, where I now am. Perhaps you can manage to come to dinner, or to lunch eon, or even to tea. You shall have no trouble in finding me out. The servant at Blank Street, who takes this note, will have a carriage at your door at any hour you please; and I am always to be found. You will say that I ought not to be alone. 1 have tried everything. Come and see."

I called up the servant, and decided on going out the same evening, which accordingly I did.

He would have been much better in a lodging-house, or hotel, I thought, as I drove up through a short double row of sombre elms to a very old-fashioned brick house, darkened by the foliage of these trees, which overtopped, and nearly surrounded it. It was a perverse choice, for nothing could be imagined more triste and silent. The house, I found, belonged to him. He had stayed for a day or two in town, and, finding it for some cause insupportable, had come out here, probably because being furnished and his own, he was relieved of the thought and delay of selection, by coming here.

The sun had already set, and the red reflected light of the western sky illuminated the scene with the peculiar effect with which we are all familiar. The hall seemed very dark, but, getting to the back drawing-room, whose windows command the west, I was again in the same dusky light. I sat down, looking out upon the richly-wooded landscape that glowed in the grand and melancholy light which was every moment fading. The corners of the room were already dark; all was growing dim, and the gloom was insensibly toning my mind, al ready prepared for what was sinister. I was waiting alone for his arrival, which soon took place. The door communicating with the front room opened, and the tall figure of Mr. Jennings, faintly seen in the ruddy twilight, came, with quiet stealthy steps, into the room.

We shook hands, and, taking a chair to the window, where there was still light enough to enable us to see each other's faces, he sat down beside me, and, placing his hand upon my arm, with scarcely a word of preface began his narrative.

CHAPTER VI

How Mr. Jennings Met His Companion

The faint glow of the west, the pomp of the then lonely woods of Richmond, were before us, behind and about us the darkening room, and on the stony face of the sufferer for the character of his face, though still gentle and sweet, was changed rested that dim, odd glow which seems to descend and produce, where it touches, lights, sudden though faint, which are lost, almost with out gradation, in darkness. The silence, too, was utter: not a dis tant wheel, or bark, or whistle from without; and within the de pressing stillness of an invalid bachelor's house.

I guessed well the nature, though not even vaguely the particulars of the revelations I was about to receive, from that fixed face of suffering that so oddly flushed stood out, like a portrait of Schalken's, before its background of darkness.

"It began," he said, "on the 15th of October, three years and eleven weeks ago, and two days--I keep very accurate count, for every day is torment. If I leave anywhere a chasm in my narrative tell me.

"About four years ago I began a work, which had cost me very much thought and reading. It was upon the religious metaphysics of the ancients."

"1 know," said I, "the actual religion of educated and thinking paganism, quite apart from symbolic worship? A wide and very interesting field."

"Yes, but not good for the mind--the Christian mind, I mean. Paganism is all bound together in essential unity, and, with evil sympathy, their religion involves their art, and both their manners, and the subject is a degrading fascination and the Nemesis sure. God forgive me!

"I wrote a great deal; I wrote late at night. I was always thinking on the subject, walking about, wherever I was, everywhere. It thoroughly infected me. You are to remember that all the material ideas connected with it were more or less of the beautiful, the subject itself delightfully interesting, and I, then, without a care." He sighed heavily. "I believe, that every one who sets about writing in earnest does his work, as a friend of mine phrased it, on something--tea, or coffee, or tobacco. I suppose there is a material waste that must be hourly supplied in such occupations, or that we should grow too abstracted, and the mind, as it were, pass out of the body, unless it were reminded often enough of the connection by actual sensation. At all events, I felt the want, and I supplied it. Tea was my companion-at first the ordinary black tea, made in the usual way, not too strong: but I drank a good deal, and increased its strength as I went on. I never, experienced an uncomfortable symptom from it. ! began to take a little green tea. I found the effect pleasanter, it cleared and intensified the power of thought so, I had come to take it frequently, but not stronger than one might take it for pleasure. I wrote a great deal out here, it was so quiet, and in this room. I used to sit up very late, and it became a habit with me to sip my tea--green tea--every now and then as my work proceeded. I had a little kettle on my table, that swung over a lamp, and made tea two or three times between eleven o'clock and two or three in the morning, my hours of going to bed. I used to go into town every day. I was not a monk, and, although I spent an hour or two in a library, hunting up authorities and looking out lights upon my theme, I was in no morbid state as far as I can judge. I met my friends pretty much as usual and enjoyed their society, and, on the whole, existence had never been, I think, so pleasant before.

"I had met with a man who had some odd old books, German editions in medieval Latin, and I was only too happy to be permitted access to them. This obliging person's books were in the City, a very out-of-the-way part of it. I had rather out-stayed my intended hour, and, on coming out, seeing no cab near, I was tempted to get into the omnibus which used to drive past this house. It was darker than this by the time the 'bus had reached an old house, you may have remarked, with four poplars at each side of the door, and there the last passenger but myself got out. We drove along rather faster. It was twilight now. I leaned back in my corner next the door ruminating pleasantly.

"The interior of the omnibus was nearly dark. I had observed in the corner opposite to me at the other side, and at the end next the horses, two small circular reflections, as it seemed to me of a reddish light. They were about two inches apart, and about the size of those small brass buttons that yachting men used to put upon their jackets. I began to speculate, as listless men will, upon this trifle, as it seemed. From what center did that faint but deep red light come, and from what--glass beads, buttons, toy decorations-was it reflected? We were lumbering along gently, having nearly a mile still to go. I had not solved the puzzle, and it be came in another minute more odd, for these two luminous points, with a sudden jerk, descended nearer and nearer the floor, keeping still their relative distance and horizontal position, and then, as suddenly, they rose to the level of the seat on which I was sitting and I saw them no more.

"My curiosity was now really excited, and, before I had time to think, I saw again these two dull lamps, again together near the floor; again they disappeared, and again in their old corner I saw them. "So, keeping my eyes upon them, I edged quietly up my own side, towards the end at which I still saw these tiny discs of red.

"There was very little light in the 'bus. It was nearly dark. I leaned forward to aid my endeavor to discover what these little circles really were. They shifted position a little as I did so. I began now to perceive an outline of something black, and 1 soon saw, with tolerable distinctness, the outline of a small black monkey, pushing its face forward in mimicry to meet mine; those were its eyes, and I now dimly saw its teeth grinning at me. "I drew back, not knowing whether it might not meditate a spring. 1 fancied that one of the passengers had forgot this ugly pet, and wishing to ascertain something of its temper, though not caring to trust my fingers to it, I poked my umbrella softly towards it. It remained immovable--up to it--through it. For through it, and back and forward it passed, without the slightest resistance.

"I can't, in the least, convey to you the kind of horror that I felt. When I had ascertained that the thing was an illusion, as I then supposed, there came a misgiving about myself and a terror that fascinated me in impotence to remove my gaze from the eyes of the brute for some moments. As I looked, it made a little skip back, quite into the corner, and I, in a panic, found myself at the door, having put my head out, drawing deep breaths of the outer air, and staring at the lights and tress we were passing, too glad to reassure myself of reality. "I stopped the 'bus and got out. I perceived the man look oddly at me as I paid him. I dare say there was something unusual in my looks and manner, for I had never felt so strangely before."

CHAPTER VII

The Journey: First Stage

"When the omnibus drove on, and I was alone upon the road, I looked carefully round to ascertain whether the monkey had fol lowed me. To my indescribable relief ! saw it nowhere. I can't describe easily what a shock I had received, and my sense of genuine gratitude on finding myself, as I supposed, quite rid of it.

"I had got out a little before we reached this house, two or three hundred steps. A brick wall runs along the footpath, and inside the wall is a hedge of yew, or some dark evergreen of that kind, and within that again the row of fine trees which you may have remarked as you came. "This brick wall is about as high as my shoulder, and happening to raise my eyes I saw the monkey, with that stooping gait, on all fours, walking or creeping, close beside me, on top of the wall. I stopped, looking at it with a feeling of loathing and horror. As I stopped so did it. It sat up on the wall with its long hands on its knees looking at me. There was not light enough to see it much more than in outline, nor was it dark enough to bring the peculiar light of its eyes into strong relief. I still saw, however, that red foggy light plainly enough. It did not show its teeth, nor exhibit any sign of irritation, but seemed jaded and sulky, and was observing me steadily. "I drew back into the middle of the road. It was an unconscious recoil, and there I stood, still looking at it. It did not move.

"With an instinctive determination to try something--any thing, I turned about and walked briskly towards town with askance look, all the time, watching the movements of the beast. It crept swiftly along the wall, at exactly my pace.

"Where the wall ends, near the turn of the road, it came down, and with a wiry spring or two brought itself close to my feet, and continued to keep up with me, as I quickened my pace. It was at my left side, so dose to my leg that I felt every moment as if I should tread upon it.

"The road was quite deserted and silent, and it was darker every moment. I stopped dismayed and bewildered, turning as 1 did so, the other way--I mean, towards this house, away from which I had been walking. When I stood still, the monkey drew back to a distance of, I suppose, about five or six yards, and remained stationary, watching me. "I had been more agitated than I have said. I had read, of course, as everyone has, something about 'spectral illusions,' as you physicians term the phenomena of such cases. I considered my situation, and looked my misfortune in the face.

"These affections, I had read, are sometimes transitory and sometimes obstinate. I had read of cases in which the appearance, at first harmless, had, step by step, degenerated into something direful and insupportable, and ended by wearing its victim out. Still as I stood there, but for my bestial companion, quite alone, I tried to comfort myself by repeating again and again the assurance, 'the thing is purely disease, a well-known physical affection, as distinctly as small-pox or neuralgia. Doctors are all agreed on that, philosophy demonstrates it. I must not be a fool. I've been sitting up too late, and I daresay my digestion is quite wrong, and, with God's help, I shall be all right, and this is but a symptom of nervous dyspepsia.'

Did I believe all this? Not one word of it, no more than any other miserable being ever did who is once seized and riveted in this satanic captivity. Against my convictions, I might say my knowledge, I was simply bullying myself into a false courage.

"I now walked homeward. I had only a few hundred yards to go. I had forced myself into a sort of resignation, but I had not got over the sickening shock and the flurry of the first certainty of my misfortune.

"I made up my mind to pass the night at home. The brute moved dose betide me, and 1 fancied there was the sort of anxious drawing toward the house, which one sees in tired horses or dogs, sometimes as they come toward home.

"I was afraid to go into town, I was afraid of any one's seeing and recognizing me. I was conscious of an irrepressible agitation in my manner. Also, I was afraid of any violent change in my habits, such as going to a place of amusement, or walking from home in order to fatigue myself. At the hall door it waited till I mounted the steps, and when the door was opened entered with me.

"I drank no tea that night. I got cigars and some brandy and water. My idea was that I should act upon my material system, and by living for a while in sensation apart from thought, send myself forcibly, as it were, into a new groove. I came up here to this drawing-room. 1 sat just here. The monkey then got upon a small table that then stood there. It looked dazed and languid. An irrepressible uneasiness as to its movements kept my eyes always upon it. Its eyes were half closed, but I could see them glow. It was looking steadily at me. In all situations, at all hours, it is awake and looking at me. That never changes.

"I shall not continue in detail my narrative of this particular night. I shall describe, rather, the phenomena of the first year, which never varied, essentially. I shall describe the monkey as it appeared in daylight. In the dark, as you shall presently hear, there are peculiarities. It is a small monkey, perfectly black. It had only one peculiarity--a character of malignity--unfathomable malignity. During the first year looked sullen and sick. But this character of intense malice and vigilance was always underlying that surly languor. During all that time it acted as if on a plan of giving me as little trouble as was consistent with watching me. Its eyes were never off me. I have never lost sight of it, except in my sleep, light or dark, day or night, since it came here, excepting when it withdraws for some weeks at a time, unaccountably.

"In total dark it is visible as in daylight. I do not mean merely its eyes. It is all visible distinctly in a halo that resembles a glow of red embers, and which accompanies it in all its movements.

"When it leaves me for a time, it is always at night, in the dark, and in the same way. It grows at first uneasy, and then furious, and then advances towards me, ginning and shaking, its paws clenched, and, at the same time, there comes the appearance of fire in the grate. I never have any fire. I can't sleep in the room where there is any, and it draws nearer and nearer to the chimney, quivering, it seems, with rage, and when its fury rises to the high est pitch, it springs into the grate, and up the chimney, and 1 see it no more.

"When first this happened, I thought I was released. 1 was now a new man. A day passed--a night--and no return, and a blessed week--a week--another week. 1 was always on my knees, Dr. Hesselius, always, thanking God and praying. A whole month passed of liberty, but on a sudden, it was with me again."

CHAPTER VIII

The Second Stage

"It was with me, and the malice which before was torpid under a sullen exterior, was now active.

It was perfectly unchanged in every other respect. This new energy was apparent in its activity and its looks, and soon in other ways.

"For a time, you will understand, the change was shown only in an increased vivacity, and an air of menace, as if it were always brooding over some atrocious plan. Its eyes, as before, were never off me."

"Is it here now?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "it has been absent exactly a fortnight and a day--fifteen days. It has sometimes been away so long as nearly two months, once for three. Its absence always exceeds a fortnight, al though it may be but by a single day. Fifteen days having past since I saw it last, it may return now at any moment."

"Is its return," I asked, "accompanied by any peculiar manifestation?"

"Nothing--no," he said. "It is simply with me again. On lifting my eyes from a book, or turning my head, I see it, as usual, looking at me, and then it remains, as before, for its appointed time. I have never told so much and so minutely before to any one."

I perceived that he was agitated, and looking like death, and he repeatedly applied his handkerchief to his forehead; I suggested that he might be cured, and told him that I would call, with pleasure, in the morning, but he said: "No, if you don't mind hearing it all now. I have got so far, and I should prefer making one effort of it. When I spoke to Dr. Harley, I had nothing like so much to tell. You are a philosophic physician. You give spirit its proper rank. If the thing is real----"

He paused looking at me with agitated inquiry.

"We can discuss it by-and-by, and very fully. I will give you all I think, " I answered after an interval.

"Well--very well. If it is anything real, I say, it is prevailing. little by little, and drawing me more interiorly into hell. Optic nerves, he talked of. Ah! well--there are other nerves of communication. May God Almighty help me! You shall hear. "It is power of action, I tell you, had increased. Its malice became, in a way, aggressive. About two years ago, some questions that were pending between me and the bishop having been settled, I went down to my parish in Warwickshire, anxious to find occupation in my profession. I was not prepared for what happened, although I have since thought I might have apprehended something like it. The reason of my saying so is this--"

He was beginning to speak with a great deal more effort and reluctance, and sighted often, and seemed at times nearly overcome. But at this time his manner was not agitated. It was more like that of a sinking patient, who has given himself up.

"Yes, but I will first tell you about Kenlis my parish.

"It was with me when I left this place for Drawlbridge. It was my silent traveling companion, and it remained with me at the vicarage. When I entered on the discharge of my duties, another change took place. The thing exhibited an atrocious determination to thwart me. It was with me in the church--in the reading desk--in the pulpit--within the communion rails. At last, it reached this extremity, that while I was reading to the congregation, it would spring upon the book and squat there, so that I was unable to see the page. This happened more than once.

"I left Drawlbridge for a time. I placed myself in Dr. Harley's hands. I did everything he told me. he gave my case a great deal of thought. It interested him, I think. He seemed successful.

For nearly three months I was perfectly free from a return. I began to think I was safe. With his full assent I returned to Drawlbridge.

"I traveled in a chaise. I was in good spirits. I was more--I was happy and grateful. I was returning , as I thought, delivered from a dreadful hallucination, to the scene of duties which I longed to enter upon. It was a beautiful sunny evening, everything looked serene and cheerful, and I was delighted, I remember looking out of the window to see the spire of my church at Kenlis among the trees, at the point where one has the earliest view of it. It is exactly where the little stream that bounds the parish passes under the road by a culvert, and where it emerges at the roadside, a stone with an old inscription is placed. As we passed this point, I drew my head in and sat down, and in the corner of the chaise was the monkey.

"For a moment I felt faint, and then quite wild with despair and horror, I called to the driver, and got out, and sat down at the road-side, and prayed to God silently for mercy. A despairing resignation supervened. My companion was with me as I reentered the vicarage. The same persecution followed. After a short struggle I submitted, and soon I left the place. "I told you," he said, "that all the beast has before this become in certain ways aggressive. I will explain a little. It seemed to be actuated by intense and increasing fury, whenever I said my prayers, or even meditated prayer. It amounted at last to a dreadful interruption. You will ask, how could a silent immaterial phantom effect that? It was thus, whenever I meditated praying; It was always before me, and nearer and nearer. "It used to spring on the table, on the back of the chair, on the chimney-piece, and slowly swing itself from side to side, looking at me all the time. There is in its motion an indefinable power to dissipate thought, and to contract one's attention to that monotony, till the ideas shrink, as it were, to a point, and at last to nothing--and unless I had started up , and shook off the catalepsy I have felt as if my mind were to a point of losing itself. There are no other ways," he sighed heavily; "thus, for instance, while I pray with my eyes closed, it comes closer and closer and closer, and I see it. I know it is not to be accounted for physically, but I do actually see it, though my lids are closed, and so it rocks my mind, as it were, and overpowers me, and I am obliged to rise from my knees. If you had ever yourself known this, you would be acquainted with desperation."

CHAPTER IX

The Third Stage

"I see, Dr. Hesselius, that you don't lose one word of my statement. I need not ask you to listen specially to what I am now going to tell you. They talk of the optic nerves, and of spectral illusions, as if the organ of fight was the only point assailable by the influences that have fastened upon me--l know better. For two years in my direful case that limitation prevailed. But as food is taken in softly at the lips, and then brought under the teeth, as the tip of the little finger caught in a mill crank will draw in the hand, and the arm, and the whole body, so the miserable mortal who has been once caught firmly by the end of the finest fibre of his nerve, is drawn in and in, by the enormous machinery of hell, until he is as 1 am. Yes, Doctor, as I am, for a while I talk to you, and implore relief, I feel that my prayer is for the impossible, and my pleading with the inexorable."

1 endeavoured to calm his visibly increasing agitation, and told him that he must not despair.

While we talked the night had overtaken us. The filmy moon light was wide over the scene which the window commanded, and I said: "Perhaps you would prefer having candles. This light, you know, is odd. I should wish you, as much as possible, under your usual conditions while I make my diagnosis, shall I call it--otherwise I don't care."

"All lights are the same to me," he said; "except when 1 read or write, I care not if night were perpetual. I am going to tell you what happened about a year ago. The thing began to speak to me."

"Speak! How do you mean--speak as a man does, do you mean?" "yes; speak in words and consecutive sentences, with perfect coherence and articulation; but there is a peculiarity. It is not like the tone of a human voice. It is not by my ears it reaches me-it comes like a singing through my head.

"This faculty, the power of speaking to me, will be my undoing. It won't let me pray, it interrupts me with dreadful blasphemies. I dare not go on, I could not. Oh! Doctor, can the skill, and thought, and prayers of man avail me nothing!"

"You must promise me, my dear sir, not to trouble yourself with unnecessarily exciting thoughts; confine yourself strictly to the narrative of facts; and recollect, above all, that even if the thing that infests you be, you seem to suppose a reality with an actual in dependent life and will, yet it can have no power to hurt you, unless it be given from above: its access to your senses depends mainly upon your physical condition--this is, under God, your com fort and reliance: we are all alike environed. It is only that in your case, the 'parties,' the veil of the flesh, the screen, is a little out of repair, and sights and sounds are transmitted. We must enter on a new course, sir,---be encouraged. I'll give to-night to the careful consideration of the whole case."

"You are very good, sir; you think it worth trying, you don't give me quite up; but, sir, you don't know, it is gaining such an influence over me: it orders me about, it is such a tyrant, and I'm growing so helpless. May God deliver me!"

"It orders you about--of course you mean by speech?"

"Yes, yes; it is always urging me to crimes, to injure others, or myself. You see, Doctor, the situation is urgent, it is indeed. When I was in Shropshire, a few weeks ago" (Mr. Jennings was speaking rapidly and trembling now, holding my arm with one hand, and looking in my face), "I went out one day with a party of friends for a walk: my persecutor, I tell you, was with me at the time. I lagged behind the rest: the country near the Dee, you know, is beautiful. Our path happened to lie near a coal mine, and at the verge of the wood is a perpendicular shaft, they say, a hundred and fifty feet deep. My niece had remained behind with me--she knows, of course nothing of the nature of my sufferings. She knew, however, that I had been ill, and was low, and she remained to prevent my being quite alone. As we loitered slowly on together, the brute that accompanied me was urging me to throw myself down the shaft. I tell you now--oh, sir, think of it!--the one consideration that saved me from that hideous death was the fear lest the shock of witnessing the occurrence should be too much for the poor girl. I asked her to go on and walk with her friends, saying that I could go no further. She made excuses, and the more I urged her the firmer she became. She looked doubtful and frightened. 1 suppose there was something in my looks or manner that alarmed her; but she would not go, and that literally saved me. You had no idea, sir, that a living man could be made so abject a slave of Satan," he said, with a ghastly groan and a shudder.

There was a pause here, and I said, "You were preserved nevertheless. It was the act of God. You are in His hands and in the power of no other being: be therefore confident for the future."

CHAPTER X

Home

I made him have candles lighted, and saw the room looking cheery and inhabited before I left him. I told him that he must regard his illness strictly as one dependent on physical, though subtle physical causes. 1 told him that he had evidence of God's care and love in the deliverance which he had just described, and that I had perceived with pain that he seemed to regard its peculiar features as indicating that he had been delivered over to spiritual reprobation. Than such a conclusion nothing could be, I insisted, less warranted; and not only so, but more contrary to [acts, as disclosed in his mysterious deliverance from that murderous in fluence during his Shropshire excursion. First, his niece had been retained by his side without his intending to keep her near him; and, secondly, there had been infused into his mind an irresistible repugnance to execute the dreadful suggestion in her presence.

As I reasoned this point with him, Mr. Jennings wept. He seemed comforted. One promise I exacted, which was that should the monkey at any time return, I should be sent for immediately; and, repeating my assurance that 1 would give neither time nor thought to any other subject until I had thoroughly investigated his case, and that to-morrow he should hear the result, 1 took my leave.

Before getting into the carriage I told the servant that his master was far from well, and that he should make a point of fre quently looking into his room. My own arrangements 1 made with a view to being quite secure from interruption. I merely called at my lodgings, and with a traveling-desk and carpet-bag, set off in a hackney carriage for an inn about two miles out of town, called "The Horns," a very quiet and comfortable house, with good thick walls. And there I resolved, without the possibility of intrusion or distraction, to devote some hours of the night, in my comfortable sitting-room, to Mr. Jennings' case, and so much of the morning as it might require. (There occurs here a careful note of Dr. Hesselius' opinion on the case, and of the habits, dietary, and medicines which he prescribed. It is curious--some persons would say mystical. But, on the whole, I doubt whether it would sufficiently interest a reader of the kind I am likely to meet with, to warrant its being here reprinted. The whole letter was plainly written at the inn where he had hid himself for the occasion. The next letter is dated from his town lodgings.) I left town for the inn where I slept last night at half-past nine, and did not arrive at my room in town until one o'clock this after- noon. 1 found a letter m Mr. Jennings' hand upon my table. It. had not come by post, and, on inquiry, I learned that Mr. Jennings' servant had brought it, and on learning that I was not to return until to-day, and that no one could tell him my address, he seemed very uncomfortable, and said his orders from his master were that he was not to return without an answer.

I opened the letter and read:

Dear Dr. Hesselius.--It is here. You had not been an hour gone when it returned. It is speaking. It knows all that has happened. It knows every thing-it knows you, and is frantic and atrocious. It reviles. I send you this. It knows every word I have written--I write. This I promised, and I therefore write, but I fear very confused, very incoherently. I am so interrupted, disturbed.

Ever yours, sincerely yours,

ROBERT LYNDER JENNINGS.

"When did this come?" I asked.

"About eleven last night: the man was here again, and has been here three times to-day. The last time is about an hour since."

Thus answered, and with the notes ! had made upon his case in my pocket, I was in a few minutes driving towards Richmond, to see Mr. Jennings. I by no means, as you perceive, despaired of Mr. Jennings' case. He had himself remembered and applied, though quite in a mistaken way, the principle which I lay down in my Metaphysical Medicine, and which governs all such cases. I was about to apply it in earnest. I was profoundly interested, and very anxious to see and examine him while the "enemy" was actually present. I drove up to the sombre house, and ran up the steps, and knocked. The door, in a little time, was opened by a tall woman in black silk. She looked ill, and as if she had been crying. She curtseyed, and heard my question, but she did not answer. She turned her face away, extending her hand towards two men who were coming down-stairs; and thus having, as it were, tacitly made me over to them, she passed through a side-door hastily and shut it.

The man who was nearest the hall, I at once accosted, but being now close to him, I was shocked to see that both his hands were covered with blood.

I drew back a little, and the man, passing downstairs, merely said in a low tone, "Here's the servant, sir."

The servant had stopped on the stairs, confounded and dumb at seeing me. He was rubbing his hands in a handkerchief, and it was steeped in blood.

"Jones, what is it? what has happened?" I asked, while a sickening suspicion overpowered me.

The man asked me to come up to the lobby. I was beside him in a moment, and, frowning and pallid, with contracted eyes, he told me the horror which I already half guessed.

His master had made away with himself.

I went upstairs with him to the room--what I saw there I won't tell you. He had cut his throat with his razor. It was a frightful gash. The two men had laid him on the bed, and composed his limbs. It had happened, as the immense pool of blood on the floor declared, at some distance between the bed and the window. There was carpet round his bed, and a carpet under his dressing. table, but none on the rest of the floor, for the man said he did not like a carpet on his bedroom. In this sombre and now terrible room, one of the great elms that darkened the house was slowly moving the shadow of one of its great boughs upon this dreadful floor.

I beckoned to the servant, and we went downstairs together. I turned off the hall into an old-fashioned paneled room, and there standing, I heard all the servant had to tell. It was not a great deal.

"! concluded, sir, from your words, and looks, sir, as you left last night, that you thought my master was seriously ill. I thought it might be that you were afraid of a fit, or something. So I attended very close to your directions. He sat up late, till past three o'clock. He was not writing or reading. He was talking a great deal to him self, but that was nothing unusual. At about that hour 1 assisted him to undress, and left him in his slippers and dressing-gown. I went back softly in about half-an-hour. He was in his bed, quite undressed, and a pair of candles lighted on the table beside his bed. He was leaning on his elbow, and looking out at the other side of the bed when I came in. I asked him if he wanted anything, and he said No. "I don't know whether it was what you said to me, sir, or some thing a little unusual about him, but I was uneasy, uncommon uneasy about him last night.

"In another half hour, or it might be a little more, 1 went up again. 1 did not hear him talking as before. I opened the door a little. The candles were both out, which was not usual. I had a bedroom candle, and I let the light in, a little bit, looking softly round. I saw him sitting in that chair beside the dressing-table with his clothes on again. He turned round and looked at me. I thought it strange he should get up and dress, and put out the candles to sit in the dark, that way.

But I only asked him again if I could do anything for him. He said, No, rather sharp, I thought. He said, 'Tell me truth, Jones; why did you come again--you did not hear anyone cursing?' 'No, sir,' I said, wondering what he could mean.

"'No,' said he, after me, 'of course, no;' and I said to him, 'Wouldn't it be well, sir, you went to bed? It's just five o'clock;' and he said nothing, but, 'Very likely; good-night, Jones.' so I went, sir, but in less than an hour I came again. The door was fast, and he heard me, and called as I thought from the bed to know what I wanted, and he desired me not to disturb him again. I lay down and slept for a little. It must have been between six and seven when I went up again. The door was still fast, and he made no answer, so 1 did not like to disturb him, and thinking he was asleep, I left him till nine. It was his custom to ring when he wished me to come, and I had no particular hour for calling him. I tapped very gently, and getting no answer, I stayed away a good while, supposing he was getting some rest then. It was not till eleven o'clock I grew really uncomfortable about him--for at the latest he was never, that I could remember, later than half past ten. I got no answer. I knocked and called, and still no answer. So not being able to force the door, I called Thomas from the stables, and together we forced it, and found him in the shocking way you saw."

Jones had no more to tell. Poor Mr. Jennings was very gentle, and very kind. All his people were fond of him. I could see that the servant was very much moved. So, dejected and agitated, I passed from that terrible house, and its dark canopy of elms, and I hope I shall never see it more. While I write to you I feel like a man who has but half waked from a frightful and monotonous dream. My memory rejects the picture with incredulity and horror.

Yet I know it is true. It is the story of the process of a poison, a poison which excites the reciprocal action of spirit and nerve, and paralyses the tissue that separates those cognate functions of the senses, the external and the interior. Thus we find strange bed-fellows, and the mortal and immortal prematurely make acquaintance.

CONCLUSION

A Word for Those Who Suffer

My dear Van L--, you have suffered from an affection similar to that which 1 have just described. You twice complained of a re turn of it. Who, under God, cured you? Your humble servant, Martin Hesselius. Let me rather adopt the more emphasized piety o[ a certain good old French surgeon of three hundred years ago: "I treated, and God cured you."

Come, my friend, you are not to be hippish. Let me tell you a fact. 1 have met with, and treated, as my book shows, fifty-seven cases of this kind of vision, which 1 term indifferently "sublimated," "precocious," and "interior." There is another class of affections which are truly termed- though commonly confounded with those which I describe--spectral illusions.

These latter I look upon as being no less simply curable than a cold in the head or a trifling dyspepsia. It is those which rank in the first category that test our promptitude of thought. Fifty-seven such cases have I encountered, neither more nor less. And in how many of these have I failed? In no one single instance.There is no one affliction of mortality more easily and certainly reducible, with a little patience, and a rational confidence in the physician. With these simple conditions, 1 look upon the cure as absolutely certain. You are to remember that 1 had not even commenced to treat Mr. Jennings' case. 1 have not any doubt that 1 should have cured him perfectly in eighteen months, or possibly it might have ex tended to two years. Some cases are very rapidly curable, others extremely tedious. Every intelligent physician who will give thought and diligence to the task, will effect a cure. You know my tract on "The Cardinal Functions of the Brain." I there, by the evidence of innumerable facts, prove, as I think, the high probability of a circulation arterial and venous in its anism, through the nerves. Of this system, thus considered, the brain is the heart. The fluid, which is propagated hence through one class of nerves, returns in an altered state through another, and the nature of that fluid is spiritual, though not immaterial, any more than, as 1 before remarked, light or electricity are so. By various abuses, among which the habitual use of such agents . as green tea is one, this fluid may be affected as to its quality, but it is more frequently disturbed as to equilibrium. This fluid being that which we have in common with spirits, a congestion found on the masses of brain or nerve, connected with the interior sense, forms a surface unduly exposed, on which disembodied spirits may operate: communication is thus more or less effectually established. Between this brain circulation and the heart circulation there is an intimate sympathy. The seat, or rather the instrument of exterior vision, is the eye. The seat of interior vision is the nervous tissue and brain, immediately about and above the eyebrow. You remember how effectually I dissipated your pictures by the simple application of iced eau-de-cologne. Few cases, how ever, can be treated exactly alike with anything like rapid success. Cold acts powerfully as a repellant of the nervous fluid. Long enough continued it will even produce that permanent insensibility which we call numbness, and a little longer, muscular as well as sensational paralysis.

I have not, 1 repeat, the slightest doubt that 1 should have first dimmed and ultimately sealed that inner eye which Mr. Jennings had inadvertently opened. The same senses are opened in delirium tremens, and entirely shut up again when the overaction of the cerebral heart, and the prodigious nervous congestions that attend it, are terminated by a decided change in the state of the body. It is by acting steadily upon the body, by a simple process, that this result is produced--and inevitably produced--l have never yet failed. Poor Mr. Jennings made away with himself. But that catastrophe was the result of a totally different malady, which, as it were, projected itself upon the disease which was established. His case was in the distinctive manner a complication, and the com plaint under which he really succumbed, was hereditary suicidal mania. Poor Mr. Jennings I cannot call a patient of mine, for I had not even begun to treat his case, and he had not yet given me, I am convinced, his full and unreserved confidence. If the patient do not array himself on the side of the disease, his cure is certain.

[angeltriestoblog]

I took an online course!

Hello, and welcome to my first proper post under the #quarantingz tag: a little series where I chronicle all of my virtual endeavors and adventures in the time of COVID-19. Through this, I hope to achieve the following (research paper ka, gh0rl?):

Share what I’m doing with all of you guys, since it’s much easier than messaging and video calling you all one by one to confirm that yes, I am alive despite my inactivity on Messenger;

Hold myself accountable so I strive to find ways to keep myself occupied instead of sinking back into stagnancy;

Inspire you to pick up a hobby or try something out while we’re all cooped up indoors! I’ve seen a lot of my friends post that they’ve been getting so bored that even sleeping seems like a chore to them, but the four walls of your room present more opportunities than you think. Let’s try them out together!

And before anything else, it’s worth mentioning that this pandemic is not a productivity contest and we should not feel pressured into making or being the Next Big Thing. But, I believe there’s nothing wrong in seeking structure for one’s self-improvement if your mental health is up for it!

Ok. [START]

During the early weeks of the pandemic, online classes were still ongoing for students at my university, and needless to say, I was not having it. I was already worried enough about the possibility of contracting a life-threatening virus, and on top of that, I had to decipher lessons I could barely understand in a face-to-face set-up, and submit a paper on it that was worth half my grade. But thankfully my university opted to exercise cura personalis—“care for the entire person”, individualized attention to their needs—towards those who lacked the resources needed to keep up with the demands of e-learning. So, they cancelled the rest of the semester! I was filled with relief because as necessary as it might have been to stay on track, it was not an effective way to facilitate learning and retaining of information.

Which is why it’s kind of ironic that one of the first things I did once I realized I had so much free time on my hands was sign up for an online class. *cricket noises*

A friend had sent me a viral listicle of 500 free Ivy League courses. I guess a lot of people had looked at the indefinite quarantine period available at their disposal as an opportunity to learn something new! And well, I couldn’t help but join along, especially since Harvard was my dream school growing up, and they were offering hundreds of programs for me to choose from. (Sorry, Ateneo. I did say otherwise on my application essay.)

Growing up, I had wanted to be an author-doctor-scientist-rockstar-supermodel. I consistently proclaimed this to anyone with ears, whether they liked it or not, with all the conviction my four-year-old body held inside. I hadn't the faintest idea which degrees I needed to get to make a livelihood out of these childhood fantasies, but I figured that if I was going to be a legendary multi-hyphenate, I’d have to come from the best university in the world. I also remember negotiating with my family members from the States that I would have to live with them while I was finishing my college education, not knowing how far their humble home in Orange Country, California was from Cambridge, Massachusetts. Reality inevitably took over—more like, held the reins on my ambitions—and I had to accept that there were several constraints in place that would keep me from studying there despite my desire to.

Well, that was until I chose to take up a course on rhetoric, the art of persuasive writing and public speaking under HarvardX! I picked this out of the several options because I believe learning to separate logic from emotional appeal helps me analyze an argument better and craft more well-informed decisions—definitely a skill we must have in our toolbox given today’s media landscape that is constantly inundated with fake news.

I was to learn about how arguments are structured and how rhetorical techniques are usually employed by dissecting a number of influential and prominent speeches in American history. I then had to apply these learnings in two major written requirements: an opinion editorial and speech, both on any topic of my choice.  

Every morning for a week and a half, I would wake up as early as 9:00AM—just when some people on my timeline are getting ready to go to sleep—and dive straight into my lessons. I decided to take on a module a day since each was pretty packed with information in the form of readings and videos. More often than not, the flow looked like this:

The transcript of an address by a prominent American figure: examples of which are Former Presidents John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan, as well as Martin Luther King, Jr. I would annotate this with my first impressions, opinions on any lines and ideas that struck me.

The background of the speaker and the context of the speech: This honestly contributed a lot to my understanding and appreciation of the material. Although I’ve heard of most of them through almanacs I’d read as a kid, I never knew the story behind them.

The key concepts of the module: These consisted of terms and examples, as well as how to make use of them properly and to my advantage. Examples of the topics covered were modes of appeal, kinds of reasoning, and logical fallacies (my favorite).

The transcript, again: For the second round, I would have to spot the concepts that were previously taught to me, in action. When I was fully drained of my brain juice, I had the option to view and respond to the comments of my peers, as well as the lecture notes of my virtual professors. I admit I didn’t get to interact with any of my fellow students: majority of them were from different timezones. I would occasionally creep on the forums, look at the replies my peers would leave, and see I was in the presence of people from Brazil, Mexico, the United Kingdom, and Australia.

Videos of actual lectures regarding the reading, held by the professor: This course is an online version of an existing in-person Harvard class called "The Elements of Rhetoric". Probably the best part of the daily lessons, because it felt like I was also sitting in, watching his students recite from the other side of the room.A quiz on the topics discussed: Very easy, and you get two attempts before you submit your final answer so it’s almost always a sure pass.

As I mentioned a while ago, there are two major outputs to be submitted and they involve a lot of writing and preliminary research. (I personally wouldn’t recommend this to you if you don’t derive pleasure from activities of that sort.) In an attempt to shed a light on a timely issue, I wrote my op-ed on the steps the Philippine government must take to rehabilitate our healthcare sector, and my speech on the use of social media as an effective political tool amid a crisis such as this. The last one was a requirement I had done for my Comm subject, which I tweaked for the sake of formality.

The op-ed was subject to self-evaluation: I had to answer questions on whether my submission met the set criteria or not and give proof as to why I thought so. The speech, on the other hand, was graded by two anonymous peers, who gave encouraging remarks and cited points for improvement. Although I knew I gave my best, my final grade was very much dependent on what they thought of my work so I was a bit nervous. Thankfully, everything went well: I got a perfect score on almost every component and secured a certificate of completion (which I had to pay for, but looks great on my Linkedin, if I do say so myself).

Overall, I enjoyed a lot and found the learnings I picked up to be useful. The ideas might seem abstract but the building blocks of rhetoric pepper even the minutiae of our daily conversations, whether we're aware of it or not. All of us engage in discourse and form our stances on issues using emotion, authority, or hard facts. We elaborate on them by stating the general premise then delving into specific examples, or the other way around. Our last resort tends to be a form of character assassination, faulty generalization, or leading question. The list goes on! I don't think I can speak or listen without policing someone in my head!My response towards this experience is a far cry from how I felt towards my required online classes for school, it's true. But, there are several factors that differentiated both of them.

I was able to choose what I wanted to study. No Quantitative Methods or Computer Science being forced down my throat (although I am revisiting my lessons in those respective subjects after I’m done with everything else I want to do, because I remember my parents paid for those). I am free to invest in areas outside the scope of my degree and gain key insight from the most reputable institutions around the world. I have the luxury to study to test something out, to see if it’s simply a hobby or a potential minor/double degree/career trajectory. If I find out after a few sessions that it’s not my cup of tea, I can easily unenroll and move on. Trying to do that in college would lead to disastrous consequences.

Another thing I liked was the freedom I had to go through everything at my own pace, mull over what I wanted to write for as long as I needed to, rewind and go back to parts in the videos that I liked. Additionally, if I wasn’t in the mood to do anything productive on a certain day (it happens to everyone), I could easily do so without the fear of missing out on anything. I know that a handful of courses do require you to stick to a schedule but everything is still within a reasonable time frame.

Now, I understand that several things are chipping away at our (deteriorating) focus right now. It’s hard enough when school demands so much of our energy—I remember my Quant prof had offered to teach us once via Zoom and though if we were only preoccupied with Netflix and trashtalkan groups back then, we collectively decided to ditch him. But, if you’re determined and committed to learning for leisure purposes, here are some tips that helped me hold myself accountable!

Tidy up, both physically and mentally.

Find a workspace that is conducive to learning. In the absence of a desk in a bedroom, the living room couch or the dining table when no one's eating meals are suitable alternatives. As long as there is a constant source of light, little to no noise, and a simple set-up that minimizes the chances of you leaving your work, it should be perfect!

And while we’re on that note, eliminate distractions. I only had my notebook, pen, and correction tape on the table along with my laptop: I made use of the Forest app regularly as well and now I have a nice collection of various shrubs and trees. I even put my phone on top of the cabinet, God knows my sedentary lifestyle keeps me from exerting the effort needed to stand up and reach for it.

If you aren’t sure that you can devote your full attention to the task at hand, get someone you trust to help you! I update my mom that I’ve been studying and fill her in on my progress not only because I am naturally predisposed to telling her everything going on my life, but also so she can help keep me on the right track and ensure I do my work.

Take it seriously.

Allot a specific time of the day for it. That way, it’s easier to integrate it into your routine and stop you from bailing halfway. For me, it's not advisable to go at it early in the morning, because your mind won't be ready to process anything of that scale. But, it has to be one of the first tasks of the day so you can avoid putting it off in favor of whatever your subconscious feels is more interesting.

Take notes when needed, complete the assigned activities seriously without consulting other sources, and participate in the forums as a substitute for recitation! Be the star student you wanted to be, but were probably too shy to turn into for the fear of being smart-shamed by your peers!

Try to see the purpose in what you’re doing.

In my case, it gave me the motivation to finish it so I could apply it in real-life situations and make the necessary changes in my behavior and habits.

This definitely isn’t the last online course I’m taking: as a matter of fact, I have a couple lined up! I’m currently working my way through something on strategic planning by this website called Culture and Creativity. Although the material has been tailor-fit to address the social and economic development of countries in Eastern Europe, the concepts can easily be utilized in local contexts. Here’s a list of other programs that caught my eye while I was browsing the different catalogs across other platforms.

Investor Pitching Course for Creative Businesses | Culture and Creativity

Applied Psychology: Introduction to Consumer Behavior | Alison Courses

Marketing Analytics | edX

Transformational Leadership | Alison Courses

Global Trends for Business and Society | Class Central

Wishing you all the love and light the world can offer at a time that can be as apathetic and dark as this one. Wash your hands, pray for our frontliners, and check your privilege!

[theinkquiry]

Illeagle

Pairing: George X Reader Prompt: George discovers a secret that you hoped no one would ever find out about. He doesn't take it the way you expected he would. Warnings: The bad pun for the title A/N: I think I'm too clever for my own good sometimes. Enjoy the pun and the story too I suppose.

Your mother always told you that the Ravenclaw's curiosity knew no bounds. Every single person in your family has managed to prove this in some form or another. Your father was a brilliant inventor, and his latest achievements skyrocketed your family wealth. Your grandmother had a perfect photographic memory that has lasted her for decades. Even your great-great-grandaunt was brilliant, having the ability to memorize the entire book of spells and even inventing a few of her own.

"You're brilliant, Y/N," your mother told you. You were eleven and your mother was fixing your hair right before you got on the Hogwarts Express. "Your whole family is brilliant, and so are you, and if you ever find the right partner in your life they will certainly be brilliant as well."

As an eleven-year-old, you believed your mother's words with a passion. You began your journey at Hogwarts with a clear goal in mind and a determination to complete it. As the years flew by, you found it harder and harder to stand out. Everything you tried was a repeat of what someone else in your family had accomplished. Studying hard? Most likely checked off as soon as your lineage began. Dueling? Covered by your great uncle. Potions? Herbology? Charms? Arithmancy? All done within generations ago. You weren't even one of the 'creative type' Ravenclaws. You couldn't draw, and you've been told more than once that your voice was best kept confined to shower stalls.

"Ms. L/N. Care to tell the class what are the fundamental aspects of the proper animate object to inanimate object transformations?" Professor MacGonagall snapped.

"Huh?" Your head shot up like a rocket. "I-I'm sorry?"

The older woman sighed and narrowed her eyes. "You should be, Ms. L/N. You've been dawdling off an awful lot in class lately."

"I really am sorry, professor. I'll be more focused from now on," you promise. You couldn't help it. Nearly every day, you were plagued with dread about being something great. It was a burden that you carried alone. Even mother couldn't help you.

"That you will, after detention this evening. Six sharp, Ms. L/N."

You groaned quietly and went back to scribbling notes. Mother would not be happy about this.

"It takes time to discover your talents, Y/N," mother reassured. "Why, your great-great-great grandmother didn't realize she had invented new flying methods until she was nearly sixty!"

You frequently had these talks. It has become a form of mother-child bonding exercises. You would sit outdoors in your garden. Trees with big leaves providing shade and fragrant flowers creating a peaceful environment. You and your mother would sit on two metal chairs painted a pearly white.

Typically, a tray of earl-grey tea and some small cakes would accompany you two as you sat together to chat and reflect on your life. Most days, it was just you eagerly awaiting to discover your talents. More recently, you began to wonder if you had any at all.

"Mother," you whined. "That was ages ago. Everyone else had already known they were special before they graduated Hogwarts!"

"Patience, Y/N. School isn't over yet." She handed you a small piece of cake.

Your favorite flavor in your favorite place in the world. It was here where everything felt resolved. You didn't have to worry about the knowing looks people would give you. The rest of your family eagerly trying to figure out what you were and all the cool things you were 'destined' to do.

"I expect you to read this series of essays and write your own on the complexities of this form of Transfiguration." Professor MacGonagall handed you a small stack of parchment. You wanted to cry just looking at it.

"Professor, how long does this have to be?" You asked.

"Hmm, I believe it should be at least three-quarters as long as the rest of them," she answered. Sitting behind her desk and placing her spectacles on, the witch looked down at her papers and began to read. You suppose she wasn't taking any more questions.

"A History on Animagi..." you began to read.

You wouldn't admit it, even under the heaviest of interrogations, but you actually learned a lot from that detention. Animagi were probably the most fascinating subject you've ever studied. The art of turning yourself into an animal? You were enamored with the idea of becoming one. After that day, you spent your days at the library pouring over an entirely different kind of books.

The process didn't daunt you like it did others. You were bent on completing the trials. It was a bit difficult trying to hold a Mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month, but you had managed to successfully fake a severely irritated throat after lots of forged medical notes.

Not to mention the daily incantations. It was gruesome and not to mention highly illegal. The ultimate sentence was Azkaban. Some days, when you felt especially defeated, you considered giving up. A sentence to prison made your bones rattle, but you persevered. You couldn't tell anyone, not even mother. It was a thrilling, terrifying secret that kept you on your toes at all times.

He first saw it on his trip to fetch letters for him and his brother. A single glance at the skies and he was intrigued. A great eagle soared above the sky. In the sunlight, it gave off an almost..blue outline. George squinted, trying not to look directly at the sun. Upon closer inspection and later research, he found that it was a sea eagle. It had a white body with light gray colored wings. Yet again, it was like the bird had a blue tint to it.

"Strange..." George murmured to himself. "Sea Eagles aren't exactly native to the surrounding Hogwarts area..unless..."

It was just a hunch, but George predicted that the eagle he saw was not all it was at first glance. He started to sneak up to the Owlery just to spot the same blue-lined bird on an almost daily basis. It was a good thing that they frequently got mail, or else people would start to suspect something.

It was difficult. The eagle always seemed to spot him and fly away before George could inspect it more. It was frustrating, but he wouldn't be deterred. So, George devised a plan. Quite a few actually.

First, he tried setting up bait for the bird, but no matter what treats he brought it never seemed to be interested. This was the first alarm that set his curiosity off. He tried to entice it with different bird calls. It didn't result in much other than a new skill to mimic bird noises.

"Third time's the charm," George whispered. He hid behind one of the larger columns of the tower. By the window, he pretended to be reading. It was a long stretch, but if his hunch was right then he would finally be able to find out what...who the eagle was.

You were soaring overhead, just enjoying the exhilaration of being a bird. You liked to run far away from the castle and test out your new power. It was nice to fit so easily into the setting of the Forbidden Forest. No one around to see anything, just the animals and the trees. Sometimes you felt braver in the forest than as a human, strange as it sounded. On your way flying back to the castle, you saw him again.

One of the Weasley twins. You never bothered to get close enough to tell which one, but you did enjoy their outgoing personalities as a bystander in school. You had apparently caught his eye, and it amused you to no end. This twin was acting very strange. You were sure that he wanted to capture you or something. That must be why he set out those traps that were obvious to spot since you weren't really a bird. He seemed to have given up today, content with just reading a book and occasionally glancing up at the sky.

It wasn't until he left that you noticed he had forgotten to bring his book along with him. You immediately swooped down. The title was very familiar. In fact, it was the one that got you interested in the depths of Transfiguration magic in the first place. You used a wing to scratch under your beak. Perhaps you could drop by and give it back to him.

This appeared to be a mistake. Next thing you know, the book was in your hands but you were cornered.

"I knew it!" George leaped out from behind a column, fingers pointed in a 'gotcha!' fashion.

You held your hands up in surrender, unsure of what to do next. If you looked panicked, the Weasley certainly picked up on it. "Hey, you don't have to worry. I'm not here to hurt you."

"You sure did a great job showing it with the traps and all," you mutter sarcastically. "Then what are you here for?"

He stood there, almost looking confused. "Wait, don't tell me you did this for no reason. I didn't just get caught doing illegal activity by some guy just fooling around. Merlin, I just did, didn't I?" You exhaled sharply through your nose.

"Sorry, I'm George by the way. And thank you for 'finding' my book," he grinned with a wink.

"You're not going to turn me in?" You cocked a brow.

"Tell you what," George smirked, "you go on a date with me and I'll forget about the prettiest eagle I've ever seen."

You gave a dry laugh. "Always the charmer, huh?"

"I didn't hear a 'no'," George teased.

You looked him up and down, smiling. "It's a date, George."

He just looked at you in awe as you tossed him the book and sashayed out. "You know where to find me."

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Erica Wagner's Chief Engineer: Washington Roebling, The Man Who Built the Brooklyn Bridge

One of life’s more delightful surprises comes about when something one has expected to be at best no more than a pleasant chore turns out to be a positive pleasure. I must admit that when Peter Aigner asked me to review this book my first thought was that it was a brave soul who would dare to follow McCullough’s vintage account, even if the passage of nearly fifty years held the promise of new sources and fresh perspectives. My second thought was along the lines of “OK, enough of the ‘Great Men’ already!” After all, Washington Roebling didn’t build the Brooklyn Bridge any more than a movie star makes a movie: what about the second gaffer or the assistant third grip or any of the hundreds of others whose names we briefly catch at the end of the movie, if we even bother to watch them roll by? But then I was also curious about “the man in the window” — in McCullough’s felicitous phrase — the house-bound invalid who supervised the last six years of the construction of the bridge from the confines of his office at the back of the Roebling’s home at 110 Columbia Heights in Brooklyn. And the book’s author was indeed able to draw on sources that were not available fifty years ago, mostly importantly Washington Roebling’s private memoir of his father’s life, which turns out to have been as much a memoir of his own life as that of his father’s, at least up until his father’s death in 1869. Our sense of history has, I think, also changed: fifty years ago my mother’s mother, who was born in 1881, could still repeat the Civil War stories told by her grandfather, who had been a captain in the Union Army; today not only she but her children also are gone, and even her grandchildren are getting long in the tooth. The span of Washington Roebling’s life, which saw New York emerge as one of the great cities of the world, has by now passed not only from the realm of living memories but also from the living memories of those memories. And of course today we can read about those by-gone days on our mobile devices via a wireless connection to the internet while flying across the country at 500 miles per hour at an altitude of 30,000 feet, which does, somehow, change our perspective on history in ways that at present we can only guess at.   Chief Engineer does give us a lively account of the actual construction of the bridge and the trials and tribulations of all kinds attendant upon any engineering project of such magnitude, but appropriately enough, the bulk of this account takes up less than a fourth of the story, and even so is interwoven with the events of Wahington Roebling’s “non-bridge” life. Chief Engineer is not a technical account: readers wanting to know, e.g., the details of how the bridge’s cables were “spun” would be well-advised to search out Roebling’s assistant Wilhelm Hildenbrand’s 1877 Cable-Making for Suspension Bridges, with Special Reference to the Cables of the East River Bridge, or, for the construction of the towers, Roebling’s own 1873 Pneumatic Tower Foundations of the East River Suspension Bridge (scans of both are available on-line at archive.org). But for this reader, at least, the greater interest of the book lies in the cast of family characters surrounding his own life: his father, his mother, his brothers — especially the youngest, Edmund — and his first wife, Emily Warren.

The word “Dickensian” almost unavoidably springs to mind: the portrait of John A. Roebling that emerges from his son’s memoir is that of a monster who beat his wife and children — four sons and three daughters survived into adulthood — so often and so mercilessly that they lived in constant terror of him; who when he wasn’t beating them subjected them to the most hideous torments of his quack belief in “water cures” for all ailments of body, mind, and soul; and who later in life engaged a spiritualist medium to establish communications with his deceased wife, even though, as Washington later wrote in his memoir, he had treated her so horribly that “the poor woman was glad to die, even at 48.” The “dysfunctional family” has been around at least since Helen ran off with Paris, and was apparently still thriving in nineteenth century America, as it no doubt still is even today. In any event, it’s hard not to feel some sense of poetic justice when Roebling Sr. dies an agonizing death from a tetanus infection after rejecting proper medical treatment in favor of another of his bogus “water cures” when his toes were crushed in a ferry slip accident while inspecting the site of the Brooklyn-side bridge tower on June 28, 1869.

The middle two of the four Roebling sons survived well enough — at what psychic cost we will surely never know — to be able to run the Trenton, New Jersey, firm that, following their father’s death, was known as the John A. Roebling’s Sons Company, a steel wire mill that later supplied the wire for the Williamsburgh, Manhattan, George Washington, and Golden Gate bridge cables. The youngest brother, Edmund, was not so fortunate. Erica Wagner tells us that sometime after 1917, when, in Washington’s words, Edmund was “a harmless white haired old man of over 70,” a doctor engaged on behalf of the estate of his recently deceased brother Ferdinand had declined to say whether Edmund was compos mentis. Apparently this had been something of a life-long concern. Washington later explained that Edmund’s sad situation arose “from his surroundings from boyhood— No real home, no friends, no ties of relationship, no wife, no occupation, not sufficient force of character to rise above the circumstances and perhaps too much money when young.” He, would, however, survive Washington by some four years, dying in 1930. Washington Roebling’s sisters play no prominent part in Chief Engineer, but the same cannot be said of his wife Emily Warren, whose assistance in supervising the construction of the bridge during the years in which her husband was an invalid was indispensable, rising to the status of becoming what her biographer Marilyn Weigold called the bridge’s “surrogate chief engineer.” Erica Wagner recently told The New York Times that she “didn’t think the Brooklyn Bridge would be standing, were it not for [Emily Roebling] … She was absolutely integral to its construction.” It should come as no surprise that the eldest son of the monstrous father should himself be a difficult man to live with, even without the burden of his chronic illness and the responsibilities for the bridge project it imposed on his wife. Erica Wagner quotes a letter to her son John written on her wedding anniversary, January 18, 1896, saying that “Your father has been married 31 years today. I twice that long.” After the completion of the bridge, however, she was able to establish something of a life of her own beyond the reach of the Roebling family curse: she became involved with a number of civic organizations, travelled widely, and took the Women’s Law Course at New York University, from which she graduated with honors in the spring of 1899, not quite four years before her death at age 59 in 1903. Her 1899 feminist essay, “A Wife’s Disabilities,” written for her NYU course, is still notable for its arguments for women’s rights.

Emily Roebling’s role in the construction of the bridge was a consequence of her husband’s crippling attack of “the bends” in 1872 resulting, in his own words, from his “imprudence in remaining too long in the caisson on Saturday last.” The caisson was a highly pressurized structure that made it possible to work underwater to excavate the riverbed for the bridge towers’ foundations; though little understood at the time, “the bends” were the result of decompressing too rapidly on returning to the surface, which allowed atmospheric gases that had been dissolved into the body’s fluids by the pressure in the caisson to reemerge and to form bubbles that pressed painfully, injuriously, even fatally on the body’s joints and tissues. Erica Wagner tells us that Emily “was not always entirely convinced by her husband’s complaints” and that “much of what ailed him would remain mysterious.” The suspicion, however, lies not far off that whatever part of his suffering was due to “the long term costs of working in compressed air,” another part may have been due to the long repressed pressures of having been the dutiful son of a monster  — a genius of a monster, perhaps, but a monster nonetheless.

Erica Wagner is a wonderful writer and Chief Engineer is as entertaining as it is engrossing, so much so that I am reluctant to register a few complaints about the book itself. Publishers have become so shy of footnotes, bibliography, figure captions and lists of picture sources, as well as indexing, that in their attempt to minimize what they fear are, for the lay reader, the forbidding aspects of a proper scholarly apparatus, too much is lost for those who read a work like Chief Engineer for more than its entertainment value. Alas, Chief Engineer is no exception to this lamentable trend, which puts the burden of sorting out which note belongs with which part of the text on the reader. While the color illustrations are well-done and well-captioned, with sources given, the black and white illustrations in the running text are of only variable quality, sources are not given, and in one instance, a photograph of Washington Roebling seated with British Admiral Jacky Fisher, even the caption has been dispensed with — and the reproduction is so murky one could scarcely begin to recognize either of the two men or to tell the one from the other. This is, I suppose not the author’s fault.

There are also occasional minor errors of a kind that while surely unavoidable in a work of this breadth are nonetheless disconcerting. The Catholic World article on the “The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City” on which the author relies for her evocation of slum conditions in New York (Manhattan) at the time the work on the bridge was about to get underway appeared in volume VII (1867) and not, as the note in the back would have it, volume VIII (1869). And it is a mistake to take such a source at its word: the number of seven or eight story tenement buildings in the city at that time — if indeed any existed at all outside the Catholic World writer’s quite properly indignant imagination — must have been very small, too small to be presented as typical. Even in 1903, when the number of tenements in Manhattan had more than doubled, less than one percent were more than six stories tall.

The Roeblings, father and son, may have seen Rossini’s Barber of Seville and Donizetti’s Don Pasquale performed by a travelling opera group in Pittsburgh sometime around 1858, but they could not have seen La Bohème, at least neither Puccini’s well-known nor Leoncavallo’s lesser-known opera, both of which had their premiers in 1896. If they saw a Bohème it could only have been Théodore Barrière’s hit play of 1849, which was based on Henri Murger’s stories of Parisian life in the Latin Quarter in the 1840s, collected in 1851 as his novel, Scènes de la vie de Bohème.

But I cavil, perhaps unnecessarily, as these are minor slip-ups — there are surely a few others too that readers with expertises and interests different from my own will wince at, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that I’ve made a few myself even in the brief space of this review. None of them can alter the overriding fact that Erica Wagner has given us a wonderful if disturbing portrait of a man, a family, and a time in New York’s history — and America’s too — that is both informative and a genuine pleasure to read.

Source: https://www.gothamcenter.org/blog/erica-wagners-chief-engineer-washington-roebling-the-man-who-built-the-brooklyn-bridge

[never-to-be-read]

how do i even begin this first i think i want to acknowledge that you probably don’t care this is all so far off in your rear view mirror that you probably haven’t looked back in months at best i can managed weeks i guess that’s what happens when you miss people and moments and memories and words said through laughter or through tears but i wanted to write this all down one last time so if you want the rest then just say the word but the last thing i want to do is bother you and dredge up the past again although i promise this time is not like the last there are no names here just me and you the way it should have been from the start i’m so sorry that everything else got in the way   sometimes i can feel my heart straining as my head tells it over and over not to care don’t care please stop caring   when i’m busy it works i can almost forget all of it almost forget the months of silence almost forget the loss and the grief almost forget the loneliness ...almost but then the night comes and the shadows invade my room and my thoughts   and i tell myself it’s over all of it it’s over i can’t go back to it i don’t want to go back to it   but i was struggling i do not like who i became last year and i try and focus on the positives but there just aren’t enough to stop the tide of darkness when it comes   january starting the year with you (do you remember that?) so much darkness inside of me but only on the inside my life was good looked so good from the outside and i hated my mind for convincing me otherwise   february i got help from some of the right people and some of the wrong (i will not name names because i am past that - i need to be past that) and you were still there but i started deteriorating so we started deteriorating   march the first end of us so much hurt and pain and confusion and fear so many tears and so many words said that we can’t get back oh how we wished we could take them back i wish i could take them back but you know me how i get caught up in the moment and say what i think i want to say i’ll take the blame for that and i won’t pretend like that end isn’t all on me i couldn’t handle it and i hope one day you will know how much my heart broke when the end came i am so sorry ben   and then we were back again and i shouldn’t have done that to you i’m sorry for how much that hurt you confused you and i’m sorry that i’m saying this too late because now it probably doesn’t matter in the slightest to you but i tried to say this in the park that day when i cried for hours but i was still in too much pain to find the proper words   april that one whole we had been for so long had been ripped into halves and although we brought out the tape we couldn’t quite get it right we didn’t line up perfectly anymore and the clean cuts i had made began to fray   and all the while i was struggling stress panic fear anxiety fear again depression (the one i couldn’t say without crying) pain panic again hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt   the second end the shitstorm the start of all that drama i won’t say i started it (at least not solely) but yes i spread it i had to talk because it was killing me ben and if i hadn’t maybe i would’ve killed me i barely got through as it was it’s so scary saying that but that was the reality everything came crashing down and you lost me but i lost everything (i wish that was purely for dramatic effect)   may the start of the loneliness it’s such a ugly word such an empty feeling i had half friends left and for a while i managed drifting from group to group to group to group to group to group until soon even i got sick of watching myself push my way into other friendship groups because the one i had built didn’t have room for me anymore so i left and everyone else stayed and that hurt it was my choice but it hurt so fucking much i spent too many nights crying too many days tiptoeing around trying to scrounge and salvage any scraps left but i can’t live off scraps it’s the only thing that kills me faster than the lonely   the thing about new friendships is that you don’t know the cues and so the anxiety, the social kind this time just eats you alive because what if they got annoyed at this? what if they took that the wrong way? was that eye roll at me? did i hear my name in that whisper? paranoia feeds paranoia and soon there is just tears because i just wanted someone to talk to and an extrovert without anyone to talk to doesn’t keep talking for long   june silence so much of it too much of it so many hours too many day branching into weeks school used to be a refuge now it was a prison home used to be a prison now it became white noise not good nor bad not better than the alternative and i looked for slivers of hope of light because my mind had made the world too dark   i tried to let go you tried to let go you’ve probably succeeded i have i’ve let go of us (as much as one ever does) but for a while i held on to the thought of you not letting go because you knew you had been my rock and i liked the feeling of knowing that if i called you would be there i think that was the hardest to let go because you wouldn’t be there now would you? don’t answer that some things are better left unsaid   july another straw that was placed on the back of the already collapsed camel but this isn’t about that anymore because i know i can’t change that i never could which is why i left you properly the second time and i don’t regret that choice because i was never going to ask you to choose but watching you replace me hurt which i’m sure you could say right back to me let me say right now i made a mistake and i hope i never force myself to rebound that fast ever again because it wasn’t fair on either party involved just another bridged burned and more hurtful words hurled in my face but at least we both learned that a relationship should be filled with real love after you’ve had a taste anything less is not enough do you agree?   august hoping for the new year when i was barely halfway thru the current one i began caring less and less trying less and less talking less and less a shadow of the loud, proud girl i was before minimal effort minimal output if people didn’t want to deal with me they didn’t ninety-nine percent of the time i believe that it’s better to cut yourself out of someone’s life than continue to be treated in a way that is less than you deserve it can be devastatingly lonely but there is no fakery no falseness left and it is time that we all started treating people the way they deserve to be treated   september october november three months with a new love you don’t want to hear about that so i will skip it and i think after school ended and then exams i grew up a bit i got a bit better i got off medication it’s just me and my natural chemicals again i’m giving the girl i was two years ago another chance because she had it pretty good for a while   it’s nice to know i’m not stuck like this that my depression is simply reactive that means that now i work hard at not slipping back into it ever again i’m going pretty well, ben i don’t really cry anymore except for when i think of morri back home or when i’m writing this or thinking about the past year which is why i’m writing this all out so i can get the fuck over it and stop the tears before they form   december no more new love just self love it feels good but it feels worse when you think the only one loving you is you because i can only manage so much i think we all need someone else to remind us just how amazing we are sometimes and you’d tried to do that for me and i needed to hear it so thank you i’ve said it so many times before but you deserve to be loved and to know that you are loved and i’m sorry that i failed that you were the best person for me it just wasn’t the right time i couldn’t get past my own mind to realise what was right in front of me someone who truly cared that is so rare nowadays so thank you   and i’m sorry for blanking you for so long sorry for acting like a twat when i came into your work sorry for making a small fuss when you came up to us with michael in dubai i just didn’t know how to handle any of these situations so i panic and draw attention to myself or shut down i’m so so sorry that you seemed surprised that i would talk to you when we landed in dubai i just want all this drama to be over to you it probably is but in my head in my world in my life it won’t detach itself a parasite slowly draining me i just want it to stop   i’ve said so many hurtful things and i wish i could take most of it back all the things said just to spite you we both lashed out, me more than you and i don’t think i ever thanked you for putting up with that for so long so thank you   so many ‘thank you’s and ‘sorry’s in this note too many but i guess that’s apt the last note to finish this mess i just want some closure and every time i think i have it it slips away so now i think i will never have it a tough pill to swallow but i am slowly choking it down   january again so i’m sitting underneath this flashing green fire exit but there is no escape to be seen and i still feel like a child like a cringey stupid child writing about their feelings because they got hurt for the first time   i know i continue to get things wrong and i continue to hurt but my phone keeps bringing up memories from a year ago and there are so many smiles so many familiar laughs i didn’t realise i missed until i heard them after months of silence   and i know i’ve done this before and it’s ended badly and i can’t promise that it won’t end badly again because i can’t see the future and what mistakes i will make in it but we made a pretty good team once before so if you’ll take me back   i would like to try to be friends again   and all this ^^^^^^^ white noise bullshit emotional wreck essay mess whatever you want to call it   ^^^^^^^ is so you remember what you’d be getting yourself into   i am so very far from perfect, sweetheart  still a little bit broken and in need of a really long hug and i understand if you don’t want to risk putting yourself through my fuckups again   but, then again, being over here is a chance for a fresh start and i’m trying to be a better me   that’s all i can offer.   a better me.

brain

january twenty-first twenty-nineteen

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